


COLORS: A Trinitarian Quartet in Chromacity

by Fee_Folay



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Language, Alien Planet, Alien Technology, Aliens, Gen, Nudity, Our favorite crew as BAMFs, Out of Body Experiences, Strange Civilizations, Strange New Worlds, Stuffy Starfleet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fee_Folay/pseuds/Fee_Folay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the voyages...</p><p>See the intrepid crew of the Starship Enterprise boldly going - and running into the occasional… difficulty. Basically, Team Enterprise gets its collective ass kicked a few times while boldly exploring where no man, woman or alien in their right mind has gone before.</p><p>This is “Four Times” type fic with the overall theme being, four time going boldly ended up going badly. There are four separate stories each told from three different perspectives during the ongoing action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	COLORS: A Trinitarian Quartet in Chromacity

 

 I have wanted to get a copy of this story up on AO3 for a while, and decided the "Into Darkness" is as good an excuse as any to take time and muck around with the formatting.  A very special thank you to Xenakis and Wyntreaurora who turned this story into a multimedia experience.  Links to their works can be found at the Star Trek Big Bang site,  [Star Trek Big Bang 2010  ](http://startrekbigbang.livejournal.com/56566.html).

 Author's Notes can be found at the end of the story.  I hope my readers enjoy.  Bon appetit!

 

 ******

 

                                                                                                     

 

**TERTIARY:**

**Aurgulent (gold)** ** & Vermillion (red-orange)**

 

The shredded uniform is _aurgulent_.

It is stained with _vermillion_ coloration.

Neither of these things bodes well.

 

 ***

 

Color flashes in the corner of Spock’s vision - a tawny scrap of gold amidst the umbers and sepias of the dusty earth.  James T. Kirk has been missing exactly 1.23 hours when Commander Spock spies the castoff fabric snagged amongst the dried brush.  He knows this because he is Vulcan, and his temporal sense is functioning with its usual efficiency, precisely calculating the amount of time that has passed since a flustered Ensign Maier of Security reported the Captain’s disappearance.

 

Grimly, Spock strides forward and crouches to examine the material. It is Kirk’s uniform shirt, or more accurately, what remains of Kirk’s shirt.   It has been trampled and torn, and is smeared with streaks of red-orange pigment.  There are also darker splotches - the rust of Human blood.  He can smell the faint tang of iron. Spock lifts the wrinkled article of clothing and considers. He rubs the gold fabric between his thumb and fingers.  The traces of blood are still damp.  The ground around him has been disturbed, grasses flattened and brush ripped out by the roots. The dusty soil bears the marks of many feet and a general melee.  There has been some sort of altercation here, and knowing what he does of James Kirk, Spock is 97.5 percent certain that the captain has been involved in some capacity.  The 2.5 percent variance is an acknowledgement of the fact that when J.T. Kirk is involved, logic is not always decisive.

 

Spock presses his hand into the shallow depression in the dust.  There is blood here too, darkening the soil.  Someone has fallen, lain here, injured and bleeding. 

 

Human blood. 

 

Jim’s blood.

 

Spock closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind, searching, hoping to feel that brush of warmth and golden light, that vibrant undercurrent of mental energy he associates with James Kirk. 

 

There is nothing.

 

He draws a quick, sharp breath in through his nose, and tamps down on the unwanted surge of negative emotions crowding his mind.  It is unlikely he could detect Kirk’s aura at any distance. They are not bonded.  Nor even linked.  The captain’s mental signature, for all its vivacity, is no more pronounced than that of any other sentient being.   Being unable to detect Kirk’s presence is essentially meaningless, and should not be viewed as indicative of any serious harm having befallen the captain.

 

His thoughts, though logical, are not convincing.

 

Mouth set and forbidding, Spock clenches his fist, crumpling the shirt in his hand.  Dwelling on potential calamities is inefficacious, and will not expedite the situation. Having discovered a trail to follow will assuredly facilitate their search for the captain.  Whether they will locate him in time to rescue him from whatever unfortunate situation he has managed to encounter this time has yet to be determined.

 

Unfolding, Spock rises and signals the nearest security guard.  “I believe the captain has fallen prey to a D’Twung hunting party.  We must ascertain his location and extract him from their custody before the suns set. Otherwise he will likely be sacrificed to satisfy their goddess of fertility.”

 

He takes grim satisfaction at how swiftly he is afforded the security team’s undivided attention.

 

 

*** 

 

**SECONDARY:**

 

**Jacinthe (orange)**

 

 

They paint her _jacinthe_ , and she blazes in the sun. 

She is a Starfleet officer, a xenolinguist, a communications expert, a singer…

 

…and sometimes a goddess.

 

 ***

 

 

Orange paint coats Nyota Uhura’s lean, naked body, from her slender, bare toes to the crown of her head.  Scotty has assured her that the colorant is completely hypoallergenic and contains no harmful chemicals. Nevertheless, it itches.  She resists the urge to scratch, as doing so will mar the effect.  The shade is not an exact match to that produced by the dye from local blossoms mixed with clay, but it is as close as the _Enterprise_ replicators can synthesize, and they have no time to concoct the organic form.  The planet’s twin suns are sinking behind the distant mountain ranges, and when the double suns set, the sacrifice will take place – or at least that is what can be gleaned from the deplorably inadequate record logs filed by the Seward Expedition, the first and only exploratory anthropological expedition to their present location, planet M-814.

 

While discussing their upcoming mission with his advisory team, Kirk had expressed the opinion that the onlyreason _any_ anthropological expedition had been sent to M-814 was because someone had discovered dilithium deposits on the planet.  At the time, the Federation had been hungry for dilithium, and was far less likely to let a little thing like a non-interference policy get in the way of obtaining the rare mineral.  “After all,” Kirk had tossed out while reviewing the Expedition’s records over coffee, “what is a little exploitation in the name of progress, right?” So the Seward Expedition was sent, and allowed to play nicely with the natives – probably in hopes the Federation could justify a presence on the planet in the name of, “saving the autochthons from their primitive conditions.”  However, shortly thereafter, rich deposits of dilithium had been found on several other planets that didn’t harbor inconvenient indigenous populations, and the Expedition to M-814 was apparently filed and forgotten.

 

Until now.

 

Officially, they have been sent to M-814 in order to “ascertain whether there had been any negative impact upon the native peoples of M-814 due to the actions of the previous Seward Expedition.” However, Nyota suspects Doctor McCoy had been closer to the truth when he surmised, “The Federation must be running short on dilithium again.”

 

 

 

Nyota flexes her fingers and shifts from foot to foot, working off tension.  McCoy and Christine Chapel are bent over a tricorder, making some kind of adjustments.  Nearby, Pavel Chekov is quietly conversing with a pair of security officers.  He is studiously trying to avoid gazing in her direction, and when he forgets, he blushes sweetly and ducks his head.

 

And Spock…

 

Spock is watching her with a hooded expression.  His mouth is tight, a subtle but telling indication of his level of agitation. He is less than sanguine about their current solution, but admits that circumstances have left them few alternatives.  He had argued to take her place, but the anthropological records were quite clear on at least one fact – that Sha-shshes’ta’ah, the divine fertility deity worshiped by the D’Twung - is female.  Resplendent as he might be in his naked glory, Spock could never be mistaken for a female by the D’Twung, even given the slight variations in their forms from Human and Vulcan norms.

 

Ironically enough, it is Kirk’s own orders that have put them in this precarious position.

 

General Order 1 is quite specific.  Members of Starfleet are to initiate no interference in the natural development of any pre-warp civilization, either through intervention or technological revelation.  However, when one is exploring the distant reaches of space, far from the safe, hallowed halls of Starfleet central, it is sometimes expedient to apply a somewhat “creative” interpretation of the Prime Directive’s non-interference policy.  After all, space is a big place, and contains all sorts of dangers that Starfleet policy makers, sitting behind their polished desks in their climate controlled offices back on Earth, cannot begin to imagine - or so professes James Kirk.  And certainly, Kirk has been known to test the tensile nature of the Prime Directive on occasion, bending it as far as he can without outright breaking it  - the most recent incident at Xenar IV being a prime example. 

 

Using said “creative interpretation” Kirk had managed to salvage a situation that, by all indications, was spiraling towards complete disaster.   However, despite the fact that the mission ultimately proved successful far beyond Starfleet’s initial aspirations, and that the _Enterprise_ herself had absolutely nothing to do with the original forces that set the downward cascade of events into motion on Xenar IV, Starfleet still decided to file an official reprimand against one Captain James T. Kirk. The fallout was unpleasant for everyone involved.

 

“The High-and-mighty muckety-mucks jerked a knot in his tail.  That’s for damn-sure certain.” The string of colorful colloquialisms had done nothing to lighten the bitterness of McCoy’s tone as he’d described the incident to Uhura while treating her for injuries sustained planetside. She herself had missed Starfleet’s scathing rebuke of the Captain due to being ensconced in Sickbay. 

 

“Had Jim squirming like a worm in hot ashes! Damn bureaucrats!  What the hell do they know about what it is like out here? As useless as teats on a boar-hog.” McCoy’s expression had been furious as he ranted, his orders to his nurses expressed in snarls rather than words, but none of his agitation had reached his hands.  He had tended Uhura’s wounds with surprising gentleness. 

 

“Jim saved a dozen lives today.  More if you consider what was likely to have happened if that crazy-ass Xenang had declared war on his people.  Poor kid shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of shit…” Then catching Uhura’s eye, McCoy had flushed, and stumbled a bit.  “Um.. sorry, my dear.  My momma would have had a conniption if she heard me using language like that in front of a lady.”

 

Delighted, Uhura had laughed at the contradiction of being called a ‘lady’ when she was receiving medical care for wounds received in what amounted to a no-holds-barred free for all.  She regretted not having been on the bridge monitoring communications when Kirk was being castigated.  She was fairly certain she could have found a way to “lose” the transmission without it looking too suspicious. 

 

Unfortunately, she had been unavailable, and thus the entire bridge crew had been privy to the very public censure of their captain.  Kirk himself had sat silent and pale during the scolding.  As the disapproving faces of his superiors had faded from the bridge screen, he had taken a single deep breath, risen slowly from the command chair and turned to Spock.  “You have the bridge,” he’d authorized, voice strained. Those soft words had broken the stunned silence, and the bridge had erupted into aggrieved chatter, but Kirk had vanished into the turbolift.  For hours, there were reports of him wandering the halls of the ship like an insubstantial specter, expression so pensive and forbidding that no one had dared approach him. 

 

Whether Kirk had eventually spoken to anyone about what had occurred, Uhura did not know. She’d tried asking Spock, but despite their close friendship, the Vulcan could chose to be about as communicative as a faulty Feinberg receiver.   If Kirk had spoken to him, he wasn’t sharing.  The captain certainly never mentioned the reprimand again while on the bridge.  However, upon their arrival at M-814 it became obvious just how much the dressing down truly had affected him.

 

***

 

“ _The initial landing party will consist of two security personnel, a scientific adviser to be recommended by Commander Spock, biocultural anthropologist Arif and sociocultural anthropologist Horst…”_

_Nyota Uhura’s fingers flew across the face of her PADD.  She had uploaded the necessary mission synopsis and background information before the task briefing, but needed to access the appropriate personnel files indicated by Kirk._

_“…and myself.” Blue eyes flickered in Spock’s direction.  “Spock, you’ll have the con.” The final words came in a rush.  And Kirk was half out of his chair before Spock was able to react._

_As expected, he was less than receptive. “Captain,” long fingered hands splayed across the top of the conference table as Spock leaned forward. “I must once again point out that, as the captain of the Enterprise, it is inadvisable…”_

_“Yeah, yeah…” Kirk held up a censoring hand, cutting off his First Officer while sharing a bright smile of fellowship with the rest of the advisory team gathered around the table.  “I know.  I’ve heard it before.  We’ve all heard it before.  And as usual, you know I fully respect the logic of your suggestions, and will give them due consideration. And then do what I damn well please.” He barely glanced in Spock’s direction, keeping his eyes averted. “So why don’t we, just this once, save time and skip to the part where I do, ‘what I damn well please’.”_

_‘Coward,’ thought Nyota, with a huff of exasperation.  She shot a sympathetic look in Spock’s direction.  Others might miss it, but she could detect a faint hint of hurt in the thinning of his lips._

_“As your First Officer, it is my duty…”_

_“Yes…” interrupted Kirk once more.  “And you do it quite well. Consider your obligations to upholding the unshakable standards of Starfleet regulations noted and logged. Thank you, Mister Spock.”_

_An awkward silence shrouded the table, as Spock sank back in his seat, looking somewhat at a loss.  Nyota’s lips parted slightly in surprise. Recalling their earlier conversation in Sickbay, she exchanged a quick glance with McCoy. He replied with a bare nod of acknowledgment and went back to watching Kirk with that thoughtful, narrowed expression that meant he was in the middle of running one of his personal diagnostics on Jim’s screwed up psyche.  Obviously, the smack down from Starfleet had affected their captain more deeply that they had realized._

_“Now if that is all,” Kirk brazened on, either oblivious to the tension, or, more likely, just trying to nullify it by sheer will, “there is one more stipulation I want to make clear.  Under no circumstances are the members of the landing party to seek out contact with the natives of M-814. We are here to observe and nothing more. Furthermore, I am putting a restriction upon the use of all forms of technology. Communicators, tricorder, and phasers are strictly prohibited. We go down tech-naked.”_

_This announcement resulted in a sudden clamor of muttered commentary, but Kirk sailed on without a hitch. “McCoy will inject us with subcutaneous transponders, and beam up will be based upon preset time and location criteria.  We are not to interfere with this culture in any way.  The natives of M-814 should never even know we were there.  Is that understood?”_

***

Oh, they had understood all right, but that didn’t mean they were all in agreement. There had been numerous voices of dissent around the table, but they had been given the same brusque dismissal as Spock. 

 

So it was that Kirk was unable to call for assistance when attacked by the D’Twung hunting party. And Ensign Maier was unable to report Kirk missing until he and the rest of the landing party were transported aboard from the designated beam-up site at the proscribed time.  And by then, the crew was unable to simply beam the captain aboard, because doing so would expose the natives to transporter technology. 

 

So they were, as Mister Scott put it, totally bollocked.

 

 

 

Which is why Nyota, covered in orange paint, is standing naked upon the surface of planet M-841 and wishing it weren’t quite so obvious to everyone present that she found the evening air a bit chilly.

 

“Damn you, Jim Kirk, “ she mutters under her breath, already planning the ways in which he is going to make this up to her – and he _will_ make this up to her, because she won’t even consider the possibility that their plan will not succeed. She _will_ get him back, alive and in one piece, and she _will_ make him kiss her perfectly pedicured feet for putting her through this.

 

She _will_ make this happen.  If she doesn’t she is afraid Spock will do something reckless, Starfleet regs be damned.  Aboard the _Enterprise_ , it is understood that Commander Spock is somewhat _compromised_ when it comes to the well being of James T. Kirk, despite his efforts to pretend otherwise, and reckless Vulcans are not to be taken lightly.

 

Spock steps closer, into her personal space.  It is deliberate.  Vulcans do not _accidentally_ violate personal boundaries. It is his way of acknowledging intimacy.

 

“Lieutenant, are you prepared?”

 

She straightens her back, noting how, as always, his presence inspires both passion and propriety.  It seems incongruous, yet it is not.

 

“Yes, Commander.”  She shakes tension out of her hands. “I’ll bring him back.”

 

He looks at her then, face inscrutable in the fading light.  “I have no doubt that you intend to.  However, should you feel you are at risk, I order you to withdraw, even if it means failure to obtain your objective.”

 

She firms her jaw and repeats, “I _will_ bring him back, sir.”

 

For a moment, he just watches her, then steps aside with a brief nod.  “Very well.  Proceed.”

 

McCoy nods his own well wishes, and at his side, Christine gives her a subtle two thumbs-up. 

 

“ _Udachi_!” enthuses Pavel from his position between two security personnel, his smile bright and guileless.  Then apparently remembering she is unclothed, his eyes go comically wide before he snaps them shut.  It is that she brings with her as she steps into the thorny, scrub forest.

 

 

 

She finds him tied to poles in the center of the D’Twung village. The inhabitants step aside, conversing in their lyrical flute-like language while she approaches.  Like her, he is stripped naked, his body smeared with vermillion pigment. She can see deep bruising and abraded skin beneath the coloration. There is a wide gash above one hip, perhaps from a knife or one of the D’Twung hunting spears.  From the traces of dried blood smeared across his hip and groin, the wound obviously bled freely.  Now, however, it is beginning to clot.  Small flying insects land and crawl across the torn flesh.  Kirk’s arms are secured behind his back, strapped to a cross beam that stretches above his head.  The position forces him forward at an awkward angle, threatening to dislocate his shoulders.  His feet barely brush the ground. It is brutal.  She has to check herself to keep from reacting.

 

His head is down, hanging.  She cannot tell if he is breathing.

 

She has read the log entries of the previous expedition.  She knows how this will go. 

 

_When the twin suns of the planet begin to disappear behind the Chu’at Mountains, the local Ma’ha’tamoma (wise one) will approach the center of the village to oversee the ritual sacrifice to the goddess Sha-shshes’ta’ah. The village females, from child to adult, will stand in a circle to witness the event.  The smaller males will be banished to the thatched mud huts.  They are deemed unworthy to participate in the sacred event.  The females will begin to sing the shandalif’tah – the song of the sacred gifts. The Ma’ha’tamoma will take her kerdiff (sacred stone blade) in one of her left arms.  In one right arm, she will hold the douha (the bowl of life).  With her remaining arms, she will restrain the sacrificial animal._

 

The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ will grasp Jim Kirk by the hair and lift his head, baring his throat to the blade. 

 

_Then she will use her kerdiff to cut the animal’s throat._

 

The knife will carve a path across Jim’s neck, slicing through flesh as easily as parting a ripe mango. If he is still alive and aware, he will try to scream, desperate, terrified. He will choke on his own blood.

 

_She will catch some of the blood in the douha._

 

Jim’s blood will spatter in the soft dust at the _Ma’ha’tamoma’s_ feet, while she holds the carved bowl out to catch some of the draining life fluid. Jim will become disoriented, lose consciousness…

 

and die.

 

_The douha will be passed among the females, so that they may drink of the sacred fluid._

 

They will drink Jim’s blood.

 

_Then the sacrificial animal will be roasted and consumed in a ritual feast._

 

They will burn Jim’s body and eat his flesh.

 

_The sacrifice will assure good hunting for the coming turn of the season, approximately forty days standard. – Dr. Izum, Seward Expedition_

 

Yes, Nyota has read the logs. She knows how this will go.

 

Therefore, she must get things right, because getting things wrong is not an option.

 

She has rehearsed her lines carefully, listening to the language tapes over and over to catch the subtle shifts in inflection. The D’Twung use a tonal language and convey some grammatical information through changes in pitch.  There are sounds she knows she cannot make with her Human tongue, pitches she cannot reach.  She has chosen her words carefully, planned her speech so that she can avoid concepts that would require those unattainable tonemes and phonemes.

 

She steps into the center of the village.  The D’Twung females eye her suspiciously.  They are tall, over two meters, with long, tapering legs and four arms.  They wear short skirts fashioned of simple fibers, but their chests are bare, revealing two rows of breasts, running like teats down their torsos.  Behind them scurry the males - small, shy things, rail thin and childlike, but for the heavy male genitals swinging between their legs. The have both a primary penis and two smaller secondary penes to either side.

 

_The D’Twung display a high degree of sexual dimorphism.  Aside from their disproportionately sized genitalia, the male D’Twung are smaller that the females and appear less developed.  Their limited cranial capacity suggests less intelligence.  Despite repeated attempts, we have been unable to establish communications with them either verbally or non-verbally.  The females of the species treat the males with indifference.  Aside from making sure the males are fed, and protected from local predators, the females seem to have little interest in them other than for sexual procreation.  The males take no part in village cultural life and it is our theory that within the D’Twung culture their function is purely one of reproduction. – Dr. Ernest Janark, Seward Expedition_

“ _Sha-shshes’ta’ah eya’uti_ ,” Nyota begins, striving for her flageolet register in order to best mimic the whistling speech of the D’Twung.  “ _Eya’utimi’av’eyat seetah veemaya_.”  

 

[“I am _Sha-shshes’ta’ah_.  I have come here among you.”]

 

The females cock their heads and the twittering conversations among them increases. The pace is rapid and excited, but she perceives no threat in their tones. She catches a word here and there, but she is far from fluent in the D’Twung language. The females slap at the smaller males, sending them scurrying into the shadows.

 

“You have called to me. I come to walk with you here.”

 

Their tufted heads bob energetically.  The level of chatter rises like a tide.  One begins to chant, soon joined by others, “ _Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya! Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya_ _Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya!”_

They are calling to their spiritual leader, the village wise one. Their high pitched voices are painful to Nyota’s ears, but she dares not show any sign of her discomfort.

 

She spies a movement on the edge of the village. The wise one is approaching.  She is ancient.  Nyota can tell by her slow, deliberate movements and the graying of her skin. Her eyes are sunken with age.  Her limbs palsied. Nyota shudders to think of that shaky grip holding a blade to Jim Kirk’s throat. Not a quick killing slash then, more a tortuous sawing.

 

She derails that train of thought immediately.

 

She will not fail.

 

The wise one is accompanied by her apprentice, the _Seyer’tee_ – a young female whose four arms help support her elder, assisting her as she traverses the distance from her hut on the far edge of the village. 

 

Slowly they make their way to the village center.  The wise one stops, and straightens her stooped back, seeming to take strength in Uhura’s presence.  She waves aside the _Seyer’tee_ and addresses Uhura in a weak, breathy voice.  

 

Nyota listens carefully, translating as best she can. The spiritual leader’s ears are half mast.  Neutral. Her use of tone on the word “avoyat” changes it from the statement, “You have come,” to an interrogative, “Why have you come?”   Something like, “You come among us, mother?  We are blessed by your presence.”

 

“My blessings are yours,” Nyota offers, spreading her hands.  It is a precarious moment.  Will the D’Twung accept a _Sha-shshes’ta’ah_ who has only two arms and two breasts?  Or will they see her as damaged in some way and attack her as a less than perfect image of their goddess?”

 

The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ is studying her carefully, and Nyota is pretty certain how the _Ma’ha’tamoma_ goes, the village goes. If this elderly D’Twung accepts her, then her followers will as well. 

 

The wise one is tilting her head one way and another, and Nyota realizes the _Ma’ha’tamoma_ is trying to compensate for poor eyesight.  This may work in Uhura’s favor.  She hurries on, “Your people are blessed among the D’Twung.  You serve them well, old one. I say this.”

 

The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ finally makes a fluting noise, her ears prick, indicating acceptance, and Uhura allows herself to relax a fraction.

 

“Why have you come? Have we _chocha’lyr_ [strayed? displeased?], mother?”

 

Tonal question.

 

It is hard to stick to a script when answering direct questions, but so far, she can answer with a few phrases she has memorized. “You called for me. You have an offering for me.” She varies her pitch to convey disagreement with the suggestion she is displeased.

 

The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ flaps her ears enthusiastically over the truth of the statement.  “Yes, we do.”

 

“So I come.”

 

“This one is strange.”

 

Nyota bites down on impatience.  She wants this to be over.  She wants to be gone from here, with Kirk, safely aboard the _Enterprise_.  So many ways she could stumble here, so many opportunities for miscommunication.  “I come for the offering,” she repeats, hoping to expedite the situation.

 

The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ steps over to where Kirk is tied, her gait unsteady. One hand reaches out to touch the crown of his head while another traces a path down his flank. “It was found it the forests.  It is unlike others.”  Her tonemes are flat and her ears are held at neutral. Simple statements.   She tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls his head up.  It is so like Uhura’s ghastly visions that she cannot help but flinch and glance quickly to make sure the _kerdiff_ is no where in sight.

 

“It is special,” she says, pleased her tone does not reflect her level of agitation.  To do so could be disastrous as the intonation of anxiety could be read as threat among the D’Twung.  “It called to me. It is a great gift.” 

 

Kirk is alive.  She can see that now.  His face is slack, spittle tracking down one side of his chin.  He makes a low, thick sound in his throat. Less an attempt at speech than a groan, half swallowed. Judging from the blown pupils, he has been  drugged.  That is going to complicate things.

 

The wise one flaps her ears.  “It will be given. At the setting of the suns, we shall free its spirit unto you.”

 

She had been afraid of that.  “ _Tread softly, girl,”_ she cautions herself.  “I wish to take it with me.”

 

The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ seems surprised _,_ if pricked ears means surprise. “You wish to take it now?”

 

The pitch use is a clever cadence of question and astonishment.

 

“Yes,” Nyota feels the weight of eyes upon her. “I would take it now, with me.”

 

She is being watched, very carefully. A hush envelops the village.  The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ speaks.  “That is not done.”

 

 _“Breathe,”_ Nyota tells herself.  “ _You can do this.  Modulate your tone.”_    No disrespect must color her words, but she must sound firm, authoritative. “I am _Sha-shshes’ta’ah._ My word is done.”

 

The hush stretches as Nyota and the _Ma’ha’tamoma_ face off. The villagers wait, taking their cue from their mystical guide.  

 

 _“Think,”_ Nyota silently exhorts the wise one.  _“You have named me Sha-shshes’ta’ah.  If you question me now, you lose credibility.  Don’t do it!”_

 

The old head lowers.  “We obey _Sha-shshes’ta’ah.”_

Nyota breathes out her relief.  It is short-lived.

“We shall free its spirit now.”  She signals the _Seyer’tee_ who trots forward carrying the _kerdiff_ and _douha_.

 

 _“Clever minx!”_ Nyota has to acknowledge a glimmer of admiration. Not that she can allow this, of course.  She steps forward imperiously.  “I do not wish you to free its spirit.”

 

Again the sharp look. The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ is no fool. She knows something is not quite legitimate, but she has backed herself into a corner by accepting Uhura as the goddess before her people.  This does not stop her from testing the limits of her power.  “Why is this?  Why do you ask such… sacrilege?”  The ears are very flat now.  Nyota detects the use of a timbre denoting anger.  The generally neutral word _dwo_ , meaning tree, is used to convey _sacrilege_.

 

And Uhura makes a decision. 

 

Nyota Uhura is not impulsive by nature.  Quite the contrary. At age ten, she knew she was destined to join Starfleet and began planning her life. She attended the right schools. Took the right courses. Met the right people.  She fulfilled half her undergraduate requirements while still in secondary school.  By age 19, she was well on her way to achieving her goal with a master’s degree in Xenolinguistics.  She entered StarfleetAcademy with her future mapped out. She knew what she wanted and how to get it.  Her destiny was far too important to leave anything to chance. 

 

Applying those same exacting standards and meticulous preparation to all aspects of her life, Nyota Uhura is not one to leap before she looks.

 

However, serving aboard the _Enterprise_ under Jim Kirk has apparently rubbed off, because in that moment, Uhura plays a hunch.

 

She has read the logs of the Seward Expedition. She has studied the field notes and notations.  She understands the conclusions that were drawn concerning the interplay between the D’Twung females and the smaller, less developed males.

 

And she has found herself reading between the lines.

 

Nyota thinks that just maybe, being female herself, she has garnered insights that the exclusively male complement of Seward scientists had failed to note.   Something that they overlooked, dismissed, or which simply never occurred to them. 

 

The D’Twung females mate with the males far more often than necessary for producing offspring, and they mate with them even when they are not fertile.  The structure of the male genitals allows a single male to mate with multiple partners at once, which occurs not infrequently – often involving a mature female and two younger, female clan members.

 

The D’Twung females, Uhura suspects, simply enjoy sexual intercourse. 

 

It’s a gamble, and Uhura does not gamble. If she is wrong, it could cost both her and Jim Kirk their lives. Yet, she finds herself answering, “I wish to mate with it.”

 

She hesitates a moment, then concludes, if she is going to gamble, she might as well go all in. “My need is great. I burn.  I wish to take my pleasure with it.”

 

And the _Ma’ha’tamoma_ curls her ears in humor.  “Ah… so the suns are _chehept [broken? inadequate?]_? They do not _soola’lyr [perform? satisfy?]_?”

 

“They do not soola’eyauti’yr, Wise One _._ ”

 

The old female chuffs.

 

Laughter, Nyota thinks. She was right!

 

“You wish this strange one?”  Again, a long fingered hand tugs at Kirk’s hair. Another pinches his ear.

 

“I wish it. It pleases me.”

 

A third hand wraps around Kirk’s lone penis giving it an experimental yank. 

 

He whines unhappily, and drools some more.

 

“It may be _chehept_. It is _z’zeereh_ [having deformed sex-parts?].”  Curling ears. 

 

 _Z’zeereh_ is it?  Nyota files that away for future ammunition. 

 

Keeping her features placid, she stands her ground.  “I wish it.”

 

The _Ma’ha’tamoma_ smacks her lips, considering.  Ears perked to their fullest, she declares, “Then it shall be yours.” With an autocratic wave of all her arms, she orders the villagers to set Kirk free.

 

Nyota is there to catch him when they cut him down.  He is deadweight, and nearly slides through her arms.  Some of the villagers come forward to assist, but the _Ma’ha’tamoma_ waves them away.

 

“She is _Sha-shshes’ta’ah_. She is glory.  What need would a goddess have of help from those like us?”

 

 _“Damn bitch!”_   Nyota is now sure, the wise one is on to her.  If she shows signs of weakness by dropping Kirk, it will prove she is not what she says she is.  She will be revealed as an imposter, and they both will likely die in a very unpleasant manner.

 

Swiftly, she bends her knees, gets a good hold around his torso, and pulls him upwards, holding him against her chest.  She looks into his face to find he is gazing blearily back at her.  “Hey… ‘huu ura…” he slurs, then tries to smile.  Only one side of his mouth lifts.

 

“Kirk,” she hisses, keeping her voice low.  “You need to focus.  I have to get you out of here. I need you to try staying on your feet.  If you fall down, we both die.  You got that?”

 

He peers at her intently, squinting, and wrinkling up his face.  She can actually see her words slowly being processed.  It is like watching a computer with a bad case of data fragmentation.  Finally, his expression clears and he grins at her as though he’s just solved the meaning of life.  “You’re naked!”

 

She rolls her eyes, and blows out a breath of exasperation. It looks like it’s going to be up to her.  “Just shut up,” she  spits.  It is probably not ‘by the book’ to tell a superior to ‘shut up’, but seeing as _this_ superior is James T. Kirk, and he is toasted, such a rebuke might just get though whereas something more subtle would not. At least that is what she will tell the Disciplinary Review Board if necessary. 

 

She grasps one of his wrists and lifts his arm above his head.  Her other arm supports his waist.  He sways, but keeps his feet.  So far so good. 

 

“We gon…a’dance now?” he asks, owl-eyed. “I’m a’good dansher.”   

 

She ignores him.  Turning, she brings his arm over her shoulder, bending her knees so her shoulder slides under his arm pit. Letting go of his waist, she grasps his other wrist and lifts it over her other shoulder. Kirk ends up plastered against her back as she grips his wrists to keep him from sliding loose. “Thisss is nice…” he purrs in her ear, and she resists the urge to drive an elbow into his abdomen. She bends forward and lifts, taking most of his weight on her back. He is taller than she is, and his toes drag in the dust.  It will have to do.  Gingerly, she starts out of the village, methodically placing one foot in front of the other, seeking her balance.

 

The D’Twung watch her pass, twittering and whistling amongst themselves.

 

 _“One step at a time,”_ she tells herself. _“Just walk. One step at a time.”_

 

He is cumbersome.  An awkward burden.  He presses her down, and her footsteps are heavy.

 

“I can walk…” Kirk whines peevishly and kicks his feet.  “P’me down.”

 

“Stop it!” she snarls under her breath as his bulk shifts precariously.  “You can’t walk. You can barely stand.  And I’m not going to get my throat cut because you want to play hero.”

 

He pouts a bit, then whimpers, “Bu’m’arms hurt.” When this doesn’t elicit any sympathy on her part, he wriggles in an effort to escape. “P’me dowwwwnnnn… I’mn’a cap’nin. Don’ you have t’do wh’ I say?”

 

She grips his arms tighter and squeezes hard, trying to convey urgency.  “You’re going to get us both killed!”

 

He subsides a bit at that, and they make it to the edge of the village without incident.  He seems to be gaining weight with each step she takes. Ahead lies an open field, which appears to stretch much farther than it did previously.  Beyond that is the scrub forest.

 

“Now listen,” she says, taking a moment to catch her breath.  “Are you listening?” Best to check, because with Kirk you can never be sure. He makes a soft little mewl of affirmation which she has to admit might be a bit adorable in a “kicked puppy” kind of way. “We have to make it across that field.  And I have to carry you, and if I drop you, we are both dead. You with me?”

 

There’s a moment of silence, then, “Tha’sss’long way.”

 

“I know.”’

 

They start.

 

She feels lumbering, oppressed, ground down.  His wrists are growing sweaty in her grip.  She is fearful they will slip free.  He will tumble to the ground, and the D’Twung will be upon them, a hoard driven by fury and need for vengeance.

 

She grits her teeth, and counts nineteen steps. Nineteen carefully placed, deliberate steps, before Kirk says anything else.

 

“Why’r y’naked?”

 

Nyota sighs and places one foot in front of the other, making sure both feet are firmly planted before she takes a new step.  Of course, he would fixate on that.  “Because I don’t have any clothes on.”

 

That holds him for five more steps. Her thighs are starting to quiver with the strain.  They still have so far to go!

 

“Nn… why’m I’naked?”  Plaintive query.

 

“Same…  answer.”

 

She feels his breath in short little whuffs on the back of her neck. Is he laughing? “Y’r no f’n.”

 

Step by precious, painful step the forest grows closer. “I am rescuing your ass, sir. Fun… is optional.”

 

Yep, definitely giggling. “I think… m’drugged.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He hums softly into her neck.  It tickles. She feels something damp against her skin.  “You’re drooling on me, Captain.”

 

“Hmmmm?”  That seems to perk him up, and he lifts his head.  “Mmm’ sorry.”  Another step.  Then, a sigh, followed by a non sequitur.  “Y’smell good.”

 

She doesn’t dignify that comment with a reply.

 

Step. 

 

Step.

 

Step.

 

Step.

 

They’re not going to make it.  She’s not carrying a man, she’s carrying twelve men.  When did he get so beefy?  He’s always seemed somewhat slight to her.  Nothing slight about him now.  Her breath is coming in short pants.  Sweat is dripping into her eyes and she can’t wipe it away.  

 

“So… Why’r we or’nge?”

 

Does he ever shut up? Nyota is tempted to just drop Kirk.  Would serve him right. Instead, she shifts her hips slightly to adjust the balance of his ever increasing weight. “Because I am _Sha-shshes’ta’ah_ , personification of the D’Twung… fertility goddess, and you… are meant as a sacrifice to me.”

 

She waits as that slowly percolates through his brain.  His reply, when it finally emerges, is pathetically predicable.  “Wait… so… like y’r this _Sha’shee_ … _Sha_ … this sexxy goddess… and I’m like… y’r boy toy?”  He sounds delighted at the prospect.

 

She really should just drop him.

 

“Yes,” she puffs, “and as a… ritualistic sacrifice… you were to be… killed… roasted on a spit… and eaten… sir.”

 

Let him chew on that.

 

A moment of blessed silence.  Then, “Oh.”

 

That seems to temporarily squelch his fervor.  He remains quiet for several steps.

 

Then Uhura’s left foot comes down on a sharp stone and she stumbles.  Kirk’s weight slides to one side, pulling her off balance, for a moment they teeter on the edge of disaster. Then, he brings his legs up and latches them around her hips.  By grabbing the outside of his thighs, she is able to shift him and regain her footing.

 

For a moment, she just stands in the field, breathing hard, her limbs trembling in reaction.  She is appalled to find herself on the verge of tears. Dammit!  She _can_ do this!

 

“Shit…” Kirk finally pants in her ear.  “Tha’ was close.”

 

The edge of the forest seems both tantalizingly near and dishearteningly far.

 

“Y’ okay…?”

 

“Yes…” she gulps, hating the catch in her voice.  “Yes.  I’m… fine.”  She tightens her hold and once again, sets her footsteps on the path to the trees. She wants a hot bath.  She wants to scrub this shit off her skin and out of her hair.  She wants a deep tissue massage with scented oil - something musky with a hint of sandalwood.

 

“Listen,” Kirk murmurs over her shoulder, and there is a gravity to his words that wasn’t there before. “Are y’listen…nin?”

 

Oddly, she finds herself smiling.  “I’m listening.”

 

“If thin’s go… wrong.  An’ y’drop me.  I want you t’run.  ‘kay?  Y’run… an’ I’ll… hold  ‘em off.”

 

The fact that this man can exasperate her so thoroughly one moment, and enchant her the next, never ceases to confound.  “And how do you intend to hold off… an entire village of armed… angry D’Twung?” she asks, carefully placing her feet to avoid any more rocks.  “You have no weapons… and you can barely… stand up.”

 

He considers.  “I’ll use m’irresistable charm.”

 

She laughs, bright and quick.  She can’t help it. The sound almost… but not quite… turns into a sob.  “A formidable weapon, sir.”

 

There is humor and a familiar hint of smug Kirk confidence in his voice as it breaths into her ear.  “I like t’think so.”

 

Then the edge of the forest is there, and they step through the first layer of trees, into dappled shadows that seclude them from the watching eyes of the D’Twung.

 

She takes two more steps, before letting Kirk slide from her back.  Her legs are wobbling and she very much wants to sit down.  A movement to her left startles her, but it is only Spock, rising up from a behind some bushes where he has been hunkered down, apparently monitoring their progress across the field.   “Nyota…” He reaches out.  His fingers hover near her upper arm but he stops short of touching her.  “Are you well?” 

 

She nods.  “Yes, Commander.”  But then Kirk is falling, knees folding beneath him. She tries to catch him, but Spock is faster, moving in that blur of speed that still amazes her, even now.  Together, they lower Kirk to the ground.

 

“Hey, Spo ’k...” he slurs, grinning up at them, drugged and artless.  “How’sit goin’?”

 

“Captain,” Spock replies, carefully cradling Kirk’s head on his folded knees.  Then McCoy is there, bending over Kirk with tricorder whirring as he growls orders at Chapel, berates the captain and demanding Spock get them beamed aboard, all in a single breath.

 

Nyota feels something soft and warm envelop her, and turns to find Chekov placing a field jacket over her shoulders.  “ _Maladyets!_ ” He bubbles enthusiastically.  “That was incredible!”

 

She smiles her thanks at him, and does not protest when he wraps and arm around her back and guides her to sit down on a nearby boulder.  It has been a very long day.

 

***

 

**PRIMARY:**

**Luteous (yellow)**

 

Jim Kirk’s skin is _luteous_ under the bridge lights.

The color is not becoming on him.

 ***

 

Admiral Christopher Pike leans closer to his desktop monitor and wishes he had made this call from one of the conference rooms.  He could have had the _Enterprise_ bridge plastered across the wall in big screen surround-sound then, and he wouldn’t be giving himself eyestrain trying to pick out telling details from a 19 inch screen.

 

“Kirk?  Are you certain McCoy has released you from Sickbay?  You look a little… off.” He squints at the monitor screen, and fingers the color settings control.  He swears Kirk looks… _yellow_?

 

“I’m fine,” Kirk replies, shifting a bit self-consciously in his center seat.  “Just some bumps and bruises. The D’Twung…”

 

“And two cracked ribs, torn shoulder ligaments, and damage to the rotator cuff,” Doctor McCoy’s grouses from somewhere off screen, overriding whatever Kirk had been about to add.   “Not to mention being doped to the gills on some kind of local hooch… I don’t know why Spock even lets you beam down…”

 

“Doctor…” Kirk raises a hand, obviously hoping to curtail the rant.

 

“You’re like the poster-boy for Murphy’s Law… _Jim Kirk, if anything can beat him, eat him, or mistreat him, it will_.”

 

“Doctor, please…”

 

“…manage to get mugged on Disney’s Planet… I swear…”

 

“BONES!”

 

The good doctor finally subsides, and Pike manages, through long practice, to keep his amusement in check. He does love these calls to _Enterprise_.  Almost as entertaining as introducing incoming Freshmen classes to Doctor Jhorish, their resident Deltan.

 

“I’m fine,” Kirk repeats, a bit more forcefully.

 

“You look…”  Pike tries to think how to word it. ‘ _Like A Mellow Yellow Sunrise cocktail?_   _Like the phototherapy booth went haywire? Like you’re trying to attract a mate on Hestus III?_ ’  He settles for, “…pale?”  He is almost certain he hears someone snicker.

 

Kirk blushes, at least Pike thinks that accounts for the sudden bloom of orange in his cheeks.  It’s hard to tell on a small desk computer.  “Ah… yeah… no… It’s…” Kirk rubs a hand over his face.  “The D’Twung painted me with some kind of local dye.  It… it doesn’t wash off too well.”

 

“So you are yellow.”

 

Another uncomfortable squirm.  “I’m… yellow.  Yeah.”

 

This time Pike does allow himself to smile.  “Well don’t have a face to face with of the inhabitants of Nanos.  They consider yellow to indicate a desire to be thrown off MountGyethis in penance.”

 

“I’ll remember that.”

 

“Probably where we’ll be ordered next…” he hears McCoy mutter in the back ground.

 

Definitely better than Doctor Jhorish, but it is time to get down to business.

 

“Look Kirk, why it is every time one of the _Enterprise_ updates comes across my desk I end up with indigestion? Usually, just in time to ruin my lunch?”

 

Kirk shrugs.  “It’s not personal, sir.  Maybe you should save them to read till later in the day?”

 

“And ruin my dinner?  Look.  I’ve read through the reports and no one can say you didn’t follow the letter of the law this time.  Yet, you _still_ managed to convince an entire planet that their local deity put in a personal appearance, resulting in, and I quote from Doctor Horst’s log, ‘ _an explosion of religious fervor throughout the D’Twung society_.’” He waggles a finger at the screen, hoping his expression is suitably foreboding. “How is that not interfering in the natural development of a pre-warp civilization?”

 

Kirk’s grip upon the arms of his chair is the only indication of his level of agitation as he addresses Pike in an even tone. “As per my orders, my crew did everything they could to avoid any interference with the indigenous natives of M-814.  They used no advanced technology, and all interactions with the natives were within the constraints imposed by the D’Twung cultural mores. I support their actions, and take full responsibility for any unforeseen repercussions of their decisions.”

 

Pike has to give the kid credit, despite his youth, Kirk can pull off a fairly convincing _air of gravitas_ when necessary.

The Admiral runs a finger across his upper lip.  There is no gentle way to broach the next question.  “Is it true they are sacrificing their own children, Jim?”

 

“No!” Jim Kirk bolts upright, and his already jaundiced skin tone blanches to an even more ghastly shade of icterine.  Pike worries that he might actually get sick right there on the bridge.  “That was… We thought...”

 

“It was a mistranslation, sir,” a female voice cuts in, with unvarnished directness.

 

Kirk spins to face someone that Pike assumes must be Lieutenant Uhura, the _Enterprise_ _’s_ resident communications genius. 

 

“I thought you amended that?”

 

“I did.”  Uhura steps into view, expression one of frank sincerity as she addresses Pike directly.  “I’m sorry, sir.  There should have been a clarifying statement in the attached addendum. The D’Twung word for child and animal are both formed with the syllable ‘bha’.  It is the tonal stress which indicates the meaning.  It was an error in the linguacode software.”  Her hands clench at her sides, and Pike catches just a a bare hint of annoyance creeping into her tone.  He wonders if it is aimed at the computer or herself.  “It slipped through before I started personally vetting all translation tapes, sir.”

 

“I see.  Thank you, Lieutenant.  Apparently that addendum has yet to reach my desk.” His secretary is going to hear about this one.  At least he doesn’t have the near impossible task of sugar-coating child sacrifice for Fleet command. That is a relief.

 

Pike folds his hands upon the desk in front of him and regards the visage of Starfleet’s youngest captain. As always, Pike is at a bit of a loss at how to deal with his brilliant but erratic protégé. He shakes his head. “You did everything by the book in this case, and the situation still went nova on you. I can’t decide if it’s a curse or a gift. This thing you do.”

 

“Sir… I…” The yellowish skin tones make Kirk look ill.  And the morose expression plastered on his face doesn’t help matters.

 

“The captain can hardly be held accountable for the upsurge in D’Twung religious dogmatism.” Spock injects smoothly, coming to stand beside Kirk’s chair in a blatant demonstration of support. “The decision for Lieutenant Uhura to impersonate their local fertility goddess was mine alone…”

 

There is a sudden babble of protest from several bridge crew members, and Pike bites back a smile.  Apparently, Kirk isn’t the only one who inspires loyalty on the _Enterprise_. 

 

“Thus the responsibility is mine as well,” Spock continues in unflappable tones, as though unaware of the general hubbub around him. “At the time, we had few options.” A pregnant pause, “Unless, you are suggesting we should have allowed the D’Twung to exanguinate the captain.”

 

“Of course not, Spock!” Pike shoots an annoyed look at his former First.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  Though I can’t say I haven’t heard that sentiment expressed by some at HQ.  It certainly would have saved _me_ a few headaches…”  He rubs a hand across his forehead and sighs, shifting his gaze out the window of his office.  In the distance, he can see the fluttering display of colorful flags, each signifying membership in the Federation Of Planets.  He specifically requested this view. It helps keep him focused. Keeps him from losing his way amidst Starfleet politics and Federation bureaucracy. Reminds him of his purpose.

 

“I told them it was a bad idea, trying to rein you in so sharply after Xenar IV.” His hand taps restless on his desk top.  “But you worry them, Kirk.  Your lack of restraint has them tossing in their beds at night, chasing worst case scenario phantoms in the dark.” He glances back at the display, at Kirk in command gold, flanked by McCoy, Uhura, and Spock.  “Your success record speaks for itself, and I have reminded them a Vulcan first officer a good stopgap against reckless impulses, but that doesn’t stop some of them from demanding your wings get clipped.” He leans forward again, voice droll.  “Right now they are debating what to do about you.”

 

Kirk is gazing down, but Pike can see his hands are knuckle white on his arm rests. When the young captain looks up again, his eyes are piercing, angry. His tone, however, is deceptively flat.  “Why are we out here?” he asks, expression held careful neutral. “Tell me. Why does the Starfleet Charter read, ‘to boldly go where no man has gone before’?   Why the motto, ‘ _Ex Astris Scientia_ ’?” One hand waves, an artfully casual gesture meant to encompass the bridge, the ship, his crew… “Why send starships… send men and women… out here to explore space?   Why even beam down to planets? Why ‘boldly go’ at all?” He leans forward in his chair, and the façade begins to slip, the real passion to peek through.  “Let’s be honest here, sir.  You and I both know, we can’t explore space, encounter new life forms, learn from new civilizations _without_ interfering in some fashion or another. To do so is impossible.  It’s meaningless.”  His face hardens, his voice becomes more ardent, emblazoned with conviction.  “If we want to strictly enforce the Prime Directive, then we shouldn’t even be out here!  Starfleet shouldn’t exist. Right? How do you ‘keep the peace’ without interfering?  Explain that to me, because, apparently, I can’t figure it out.”  His fist thumps against the arm of his chair. “So which is it? Are we meant to venture forth and explore the far reaches of space… to…  to learn… to grow… to reach for the stars?  Or do we turn our backs on the lights… crawl back into our caves and pull the blankets over our heads.  You tell me, sir!” 

 

For a  moment, Pike can only blink in the face of Kirk’s fervor.  Then he sits back, and lifts his eyebrows to express both bemusement and admiration.  “We just might make a starship captain out of you yet, Kirk.”

 

Kirk deflates a bit, looking somewhat chastened.  “Sorry, sir.”

 

 _“So very young,”_ thinks Pike fondly.  “Not at all,” he reassures Kirk.  “That’s what we need out there – a zeal for finding truths and answers and uncovering new questions.  I only wish you had been here to argue your case.  I don’t think I did you justice.”

 

Kirk responds with a quirk of a smile.  “I am sure you did just fine, sir. My sources say you have become quite the rabble-rouser around HQ.”

 

Pike cocks his head.  “Your… sources?”

 

“Blackmail works wonders, sir.”

 

“Ah.  I see.”  He taps a knuckle absently against his lower lip.  “Probably safer for both of us if you just leave it at that.”

 

Kirk grins.  “Happy to, sir.”

 

“Umhm.  Komack will likely be in touch soon.  Try not to alienate him too much.” He tries to look what he imagines might be fatherly and knowing without being too obvious about it, because Kirk, he knows, is best approached obliquely.  “And a little humility wouldn’t hurt. Rumor has it the Doyenne of Ishalmad is getting married and wants a Starfleet presence. And unless you have a thing for two day processions, bad music, dancing pigs and little girls dressed like fairies, you really don’t want that assignment.”

 

The grin is holding. “Understood.”

 

“Good luck. Pike out.”  His finger comes down on the end button, and as the _Enterprise_ bridge flickers and vanishes, he sits back with a sigh.  Talks with Kirk always leave him feeling unsettled, dealing with a conflicting jumble of emotions.

 

Something about seeing that kid in the center seat that should have been his…

 

…if only.

 

Lots of ‘if onlys’ in the wake of Nero.

 

But Kirk _is_ in the center seat, and doing a damn fine job.  Maybe a better job than he himself would have done, Pike has to admit on those days he is feeling like being brutally honest. 

 

And that rubs, no matter how much he tries to let it go.

 

Yet, he can’t help but be proud.  He picked the kid up, set him on a path, and has watched him blaze a trail like a comet.  Kirk is… special. There’s no getting around that.  Pike has tried not to play favorites, tried to remain impartial, first as Kirk‘s instructor, and now as his superior, but Kirk is probably as close to a son as Pike will ever have.  Knowing he’s out there, on the edge of space… knowing the statistical likelihood of something going wrong… reading the _Enterprise_ logs…   

 

Pike glances at the row of Planetary flags once more.  In the past, when feeling restless like this, he would have gone for a job, worked off some tension doing laps on the Academy track.

 

But not now.

 

His PT says that with continued therapy, possibly some nano-tech and cybernetic-implants, he may eventually walk unaided again. 

 

But his jogging days are over.

 

Another of those ‘if onlys’.

 

Still, he’s not without options.  He signals his secretary.  “May?  Can you get Number One on the comm?  Tell her I’ll take her up on that z-ball session in the new zero-G facility after all…. Yes, and tell her loser buys dinner.  Right.  Thanks.”  He flicks off the switch, and gives one last look out the window before lurching to his feet.  The servo-braces on his legs, power up with a nearly undetectable whine.  Yet, he detects it, every time.  Making sure he has the latest _Enterprise_ logs downloaded onto his PADD he heads for the door, his tread slow and heavy with the braces.  He reminds himself to stop on the way out and inquire about Uhura’s addendum to the M-814 translation tapes.  In his head, he is already composing an update for Fleet Command. 

 ***

 

 

 **Glossary:**   (With thanks to the various internet sources, and a bit of artistic license.)

 

(l) = latin

(r) = russian

(o) = other

 

Doctor Jhorish – (o) this joke won’t mean anything unless you know something about Deltan pheromones. Look it up at Star Trek Wiki: Memory Alpha  <http://memory-alpha.org/wiki/Portal:Main>

Ex Astris, Scientia – (l) from the stars, knowledge

maladyets – (r) Well done.  Good job

Udachi – (r) good luck

 

 

*****

 

 

**PRIMARY:**

**Carmine (red)**

 

Members of Starfleet Security wear _carmine_ uniforms. 

And sometimes die for causes they hope are worthwhile.

 

 ***

 

For Security Chief Lazzaro Giotto, red is the color of efficiency, honor, and service.  He knows this is not so for everyone – knows that for many, red speaks of danger and death.  For them, red brings to mind the throbbing, crimson light of a ship on alert and seconds from disaster, or the brilliant splashes of Human blood, dripping from open wounds and pooling under broken bodies.   He’s heard the whispered comments about “Red Shirts”- the superstitions that surround donning a red colored uniform.  Yes, red means sacrifice, but it means a hell of a lot more than that to Giotto.

 

Admittedly, Security has a higher mortality rate than the other divisions, but that is to be expected. If they didn’t put their lives on the line – if they didn’t sometimes die fulfilling their duty - then others would perish in their stead.  And that means Security would not be doing its job.  Security Sector exists to protect.  To preserve. To shield.  And sometimes to die. They are the front line.  The ones who take the brunt of all the hostile forces the universe decides to throw at Fleet. 

 

Still, Giotto is no fool.  He has seen too many Security officers killed needlessly because they were too slow or too stupid or too full of testosterone to think before they acted.   He abhors such needless waste. 

 

Apparently, James Kirk abhors it as well, for when he took over the Enterprise, he implemented some drastic changes in his security division.   First, he recruited Giotto right out from under Starfleet’s nose.  Giotto had been running core security at Starbase 12, and Kirk, apparently, had been shopping around for new blood to head up his security department.  Something about Giotto’s file must have caught Kirk’s eye, for the security chief found himself facing Starfleet’s youngest captain -newly minted galactic hero, James T. Kirk - across a conference table aboard the Starship _Enterprise_.

 

“You took over as security chief on Starbase 12 two years ago,” Kirk had noted, his lean form casually draped across the chair.  He’d used one foot to slowly shift the swivel chair back and forth while a finger drew meaningless doodles on the smooth top of the conference table.  “Since then, both violent crimes and property crimes have dropped by eighty-four percent. That’s pretty impressive.”  Startling blue eyes had flickered across his face, weighing, judging, revealing a keen mind disguised behind an insolent grin.  “I might even think you were doctoring the reports, if certain little birdies hadn’t chirped that the word is out in the Orion syndicate.  Starbase 12 is now considered ‘unfriendly territory.’” 

 

Giotto had an instant distrust of “galactic heroes” but there was something about Kirk that told him that this kid was more than just Starfleet’s latest publicity stunt. Lazzaro hadn’t gotten where he was by being obtuse.  He could read people, and read them well.  Despite the youthful captain’s deliberate show of fatuous nonchalance, the man was no frivolous pretty boy, though he knew how to project that persona very well.  Next to him, the _Enterprise_ ’s Vulcan first officer, Mister Spock, had sat primly studying Giotto with unblinking dark eyes.  He might well have been carved out of stone for all the reaction he displayed.   Giotto would not have wanted to face either member of this particular command team across a poker table. 

 

On the other hand, Karl Hoffman, the burly, interim security chief seated at Kirk’s opposite side, had been an as easy to read as a holo-ad for a strip-club.  He’d been broadcasting red-faced anger and resentment so loudly, Giotto had been surprised the fire alarms had not reacted to the level of furious heat in the room.  Obviously, someone had assumed they were going to be given the Chief’s position permanently, and did not appreciate the possibility of Giotto being made head of security.  Hoffman had spent the meeting looking like he wanted to come across the table and take Giotto apart, limb by limb.

 

Hoffman, or “Cupcake” as Giotto later learned, was just the type of thick-necked, hot-headed security officer that tended to get his limbs blown off before he’d been at the job long enough to learn restraint.  If Giotto took the position, Kirk explained, Hoffman would be his second in command.  That alone had almost made Lazzaro walk away from the offer.  The idea of trying to keep a resentful pit bull on a leash was not something he relished.  Then again, Giotto had not gotten where he was by backing down from a challenge.  After all, promotion to Lieutenant Commander and security chief aboard a Constitution-class starship was quite a feather in one’s cap.

 

He decided he could handle Hoffman.  Might even turn him into something useful, but Giotto insisted on making a few demands of his own.  He wanted full control of security recruitment.  No more positions filled solely upon physique.  Bulging biceps and prodigious pecs could only get you so far.  He wanted smarts as well - talented individuals who were adaptive, creative thinkers.  He asked to implement advanced weapons training in a variety of disciplines, and unannounced emergency drills in all divisions (including Command) under multiple failure scenarios. 

 

Kirk had seemed amiable to, perhaps even impressed by, all his suggestions.  “You’re the expert in security,” he’d told Giotto.  “Do what you need to do, but I want my ship to have the best goddamned security team in the fleet.  And, by best, I don’t mean highest body count.  I mean most efficient while not getting dead.  Got it?”

 

Giotto had gotten it all right, and over the past fourteen months, he’s managed to come close to achieving that goal.  Even “Cupcake” is coming along nicely, and the nickname, originally bestowed by their boy-wonder Captain, has gone from being a bone of contention to a badge of pride.  Hoffman has become a true asset to Giotto rather than the liability the Chief first feared.  Giotto predicts he will make a great security chief of his own someday – but that day is not quite here.  The boy still needs seasoning.

 

Yes, Giotto is proud of his restructured security team.  If they aren’t the best yet, they soon will be.  He’s been actively courting the kind of officers he wants, recruits who not only have the physical prowess necessary, but also demonstrate the unique skills and mind-set to succeed at what Giotto considers to be the most difficult job aboard a starship. New recruitment protocols, a rigorous, multi-faceted training regime, and a series of unforgiving emergency exercises has managed to eliminate those who could not hack it, culling their numbers.  Attrition has been high. Some have been disqualified.  Some resigned.  Of course, both are preferable to the ultimate method of determining fitness for the job, the unpredictable and often lethal dangers that confront them on the fringes of known space.  Those who remain under Giotto’s tutelage have been honed and tempered into a security force to be reckoned with.

 

Honorable and efficient - and damn good.  They should be.  He’s been drilling the hell out of them.  And now comes a moment of truth.  Can they defend those they are sworn to protect?  Can they keep themselves and their shipmates alive?  Will they be the tight-knit team he needs them to be?

 

He watches as the initial team fans out across the chamber, their red uniforms standing out like bright jewels among the shadowy greens of the tech-foliage.  They move in stealthy synchronicity, heading for their assigned points around the perimeter.  Once in position, they turn back to back in order to provide cover fire if necessary.  The secondary team darts straight up the middle, phasers pointing at the main structure – an informational gateway, as Mister Spock had referred to it – some kind of organic interlink with the biologically based technology of the planet. If Giotto were pressed to describe it, he would say it looks something like a melon sliced lengthwise – its brilliant green interior glistening and moist, lined with a web of fibers.

 

Whatever it is, it has Commander Spock now.  The Vulcan is partially engulfed within the tangled, vine-like tendrils of the interface device, and seems unresponsive.  Giotto holds back on the command to fire on the thing.  He is no scientist, but he can tell that somehow the strange organic module has formed a physical connection with Commander Spock.  Firing on it could injure or kill the commander. 

 

Doctor McCoy and a couple science technicians begin running their tricorders over Mister Spock and the interchange pod, apparently seeking a way to release him.   The captain is stalking the chamber, fists clenched, body vibrating with tension.  Giotto keeps a close eye on him, ever watchful for threats.  Regulations dictate that Kirk shouldn’t even be in the room - not until Giotto and his team declare it secure – which hasn’t been done.  However, Giotto has long ago given up on trying to convince Captain Kirk of the necessity of following security protocols when it comes to his own safety.  James Kirk makes his own rules about when and where he will allow security to do their job without bucking the system, and somehow that seems to work for him.

 

 “Get him out of there!”  Kirk spits at McCoy. 

 

McCoy just shakes his head.  “Jim, I don’t know how… I don’t know what the hell that thing is doing to him! Yanking  him out of there might just make it worse!”

 

Giotto isn’t sure he approves of the familiar manner in which McCoy addresses the captain, but he’s learned that formality isn’t high on Kirk’s list of priorities, and the southern doctor is about as folksy as they come.  Either way, it isn’t something under his authority, so he lets it go and focuses on the job at hand, securing the safety of all present.

 

Kirk swears and moves closer to where Spock is trapped.  His blue eyes dart around the room, looking for some pattern, some detail that will help him free his first officer.  Giotto too is assessing the chamber, seeking potential hazards as well as weakness. The room is massive, stretching up into patches of darkness, the walls formed of living tissue, plant-like and spongy, set with irregular bumps and protrusions – a “biologically based communications network,” had been Commander Spock’s assessment. Giotto doesn’t trust the open feel of the space.  There is little cover, and that leaves them all vulnerable to attack. He tightens his hand on his drawn phaser, and signals his team to keep alert.

 

“Dammit, Spock,” Kirk hisses, and his voice is pitched low.  Giotto is fairly certain the words are not meant to be overheard.  “I told you it was too dangerous.  I told you it wasn’t worth the risk, you stubborn fuck…” He breaks off and glances at Giotto, caught short by the sudden realization that he is speaking aloud. The corner of his mouth quirks slightly.  “Best damn science officer in the fleet… means he can’t resist plugging himself into every biologically based I/O device that comes along, I suppose.”

 

Giotto wouldn’t know about that. In his opinion, the entire command crew of _Enterprise_ is dangerously reckless, which makes his job that much more difficult. However, their collective disregard for safety protocols is offset by the fact they are also the most successful crew on record, so Giotto figures it all balances out.  What could one expect when the captain of the ship was been given command after a series of audacious endeavors that bordered on insane? 

 

McCoy and the two techs in science blue are discussing the best way to extract the commander.  To Giotto, is seems they are arguing in circles.  He hears several variations on, “Maybe we should…” and, “It might be possible…” and, “Perhaps if we….”

 

Apparently, the inconclusive nature of the discussion is getting to Kirk as well.  “Just do whatever you need to do, but get him out!” he snaps, jabbing a finger pointedly in Spock’s direction. “Now!” Patience is not one of Captain Kirk’s particular virtues, and he is apparently nearing the end of his rather limited supply.

 

“Jim, we can’t just….”

 

But that is as far as McCoy gets. 

 

There is some movement within the shadowed interior of the interface device, a shifting of the tendrils surrounding Spock.  The Vulcan gasps. It is a soft sound, a bare inhalation with just a hint of a groan, but it echoes around the suddenly silent chamber with the impact of a grenade.  All eyes are suddenly riveted upon the trapped commander. 

 

Giotto knows pain when he hears it – and to hear it wrenched from a Vulcan…

 

Kirk responds with a sound of his own, something akin to a growl as he strides straight towards the interface module.

 

Giotto knows that single-minded expression and starts after him, intending to stop the captain before he does something rash. 

 

But as Kirk reaches out to take hold of some of the filaments coiled around Commander Spock’s lean form, all Giotto has time to do is shout a warning, “Captain!”

 

Then Kirk yanks, and the situation goes nova.

*******

**SECONDARY:**

**Chlorochrous (green)**

Vulcans bleed _chlorochrous_.

As do Vulcan-Human hybrids named Spock.

 ***

 

The color of Spock’s blood is green.  Intellectually, Jim Kirk knows this.  He took the required classes in xenobiology at the Academy.  He understands about copper-based blood and Haemocyanin pigments. 

 

But it still surprises him. 

 

The sight of Spock’s blood.

 

The green of Spock’s blood.

 

Kirk used to think of green as simply… green.  It was all the same to him. The green of an uncurling spring leaf, the green of the thestus birds of Omicron IV, the green of a tart Granny Smith, the green of an Orion girl’s …

 

Well, that was all before Spock.  Before he really understood green.  Now green has a myriad of shades and meanings.

 

There is the asparagus green tinge to Spock’s skin that sallows to a yellowish pear shade when he is ill.

 

The slight olive cast to his lips, which becomes more pronounced if he’s been tightening his mouth to hide vexation.

 

The bloom of jade green above his eyelids, that makes him look as though he’s been experimenting with cosmetics.

 

The mossy green of his nail beds at the end of long, elegant fingers.

 

The sage flush that blossoms on his cheeks and darkens his ear tips when he is “emotionally compromised”.

 

…and then there is the green of Vulcan blood.

 

Kirk watches now as a rivulet of emerald traces a path from Spock’s left nostril, slithering downward like a jungle snake.

 

Kirk’s hands clench into fists, and he whirls on McCoy and the science team whose ineffective jabberings are getting them nowhere.  “Just do whatever you need to do,” he seethes, desperate and shackled by helplessness.  “But get him out! Now!”

 

McCoy’s hands flutter over his tricorder, pressing buttons, flipping switches, seeking solace in the familiar.  “Jim, we can’t just….”

 

And then Spock moans.  It is a bare gasp of sound but it slams into Kirk with the force of a tsunami – because Spock doesn’t cry out in pain.  Spock will barely admit to pain, even when a body slam from an muscle-bound Gorn warrior has broken both his legs.  To hear his First in distress tears through the last of Kirk’s restraint.

 

Jettisoning everything he knows about protocols and safety factors, he reacts on instinct.

 

With a strangled snarl of frustration, he launches himself at the living interchange terminal which has Spock wrapped in its clutches.  Grasping hold of two of the vines twined around his science officer, he braces his feet and jerks.  Then yelps in surprise as the tendrils abruptly sprout spikes that tear into the flesh of his palms.

 

What the fuck? 

 

He pulls back, gaping at the jagged wounds welling with blood.  His inattention gets him ambushed by another creeper that swiftly uncurls and slaps him in the side of the head. He goes down hard, feeling the sting as the thorns lay open flesh across his cheek and forehead.

 

Okay, so not cool. 

 

He rolls, allowing the momentum to carry him back upright.  Pausing, he faces the module and considers, while carefully balancing on the balls of his feet. So far it is nasty-ass biological computer terminal, two.  Heroic Starfleet captain, zilch. 

 

Crap.

 

Another tendril strikes out and he dodges, ducking beneath it.  Never let it be said he isn’t a fast learner.  Once again, he seizes hold of the coils wrapped around Spock and heaves.  “Let.  Him. Go!” he hisses.

 

Behind him, chaos erupts.  He hears Giotto shouting orders. There is phaser fire, but it is not directed towards the interface module.  Something else is going on. He spares a quick glance. Security is trying to hustle McCoy and the others out while taking up defensive positions.  Larger coils are erupting from the walls, flailing about and trying to strike the security officers. It looks like a couple members of the security team are down, but for the most part they are holding their own.  Trusting Giotto to handle it, Kirk continues in his efforts to untangle Spock. 

 

More thorns slice into his skin.  He grits his teeth against the sharp edged pain and keeps going, his nails tearing at the fleshy pulp of the vines as he rips them away from his first officer. Blood trickles down the side of his face and begins to pool in his eye sockets.  He tries to wipe it away, but only succeeds in smearing more blood across his skin. 

 

This is not going well.

 

Someone punches him in the arm. Hard. There is no one there.  He turns to find a large thorn sticking out of his triceps.  Wonderful.  With his luck, it is probably poisoned and will turn him into a zombie or something. He wrenches it free and tosses it over his shoulder. No time to worry about it now. He just hopes he doesn’t eat someone’s brains.  At least not anyone he likes.

 

He dives back in, clawing at the coils. He manages to free Spock’s left side. 

 

But his right arm is beginning to burn, the fire flickering and spreading outward from the wound left by the thorn.  Damn, it hurts.  This is not good. Not good at all.  His fingers begin to cramp and fumble as numbness sets in.  It is more disturbing than the pain.  Eventually, his fingers stop working altogether.  He growls and soldiers on with his left hand.

 

Then someone is looming over him, getting close and intimate with his personal space.  Large hands join his own, rending the tendrils. 

 

He glances over a shoulder and grins at the bearded security officer towering above him.  “Heya, Cupcake!”

 

Karl Hoffman has placed himself at Kirk’s back, covering him as he works.  “Captain…” he replies, expression stalwart and daunting, like the good guard dog he is.  “It looked like you could use some help.”

 

Kirk rubs again at the blood in his eyes.  The taste of it is metallic on his lips.  His right arm is now useless, hanging from his shoulder like a dead thing. “Yeah.  Sure. Help is good. Thanks.”

 

He may not have giant brambles on his side, but he’s got the best security team in Starfleet, and that’s got to count for something!

 

Together, they rip at the vines.

 

 ***

 

**TERTIARY:**

**Cyan (blue-green)** ** & Chartreuse (yellow-green)**

The verdant Bio-tech of the planet currently designated M-221 leaks shades of green fluid when damaged, varying from _cyan_ to _chartreuse._

 

In his logs, Kirk will refer to the planet as TriffidTown, after some obscure literary reference only he understands.

 

However, Starfleet will officially adopt Nynar, after some obscure reference only _they_ understand.

 

 ***

 

The biologically based plant tech of this planet is alive.  When scorched by phaser fire, the living tissue bleeds thick, wet ichor which spatters the surroundings like impressionistic pointillism in a spectrum of greenish shades from yellow to blue.

 

For his part, Security Officer Karl Hoffman lacks the artistic eye to appreciate any of this.  What Hoffman does know is that the fucking walls are shooting at them – some kind of sharp projectiles – fucking thorns!

 

He scowls and blasts another vine into green splatter.

 

F-ing hell. 

 

They’ve whipped up a cluster fuck for sure. Seems like this kind of shit goes down all too often around James T.  Man is bad-news bait.

 

He sees Strogolev take one in the throat and fall, arterial blood spattering those around him. 

 

Damn.  Right in the carotid.

 

Shit luck for Strogolev, Hoffman notes with detachment. He is too busy taking aim at another of the giant, thorn encrusted tentacles spouting from the walls to give his fellow security officer more than cursory attention.  He burns the tentacle good. 

 

Adios fucker.

 

The shot sends the vine thing slithering back into the walls, but not before it has swept Ensign Nnamani off her feet.  The FNG scrambles up quickly, favoring her left leg, but otherwise seems okay.

 

Too bad about Strogolev though.  He’d been a good drinking buddy on shore leave.  But maybe the guy isn’t worm-food yet, because doc McCoy is suddenly there, skidding to his knees beside the fallen officer. He slips in the blood and lands hard on one hip, but that doesn’t stop him from jabbing an ever-present hypo into Strogolev. 

 

Giotto is trying to herd McCoy and all other non-security personnel out of the chamber and away from the firefight, but the doc is having none of it. So instead, Giotto crouches beside McCoy and sets up suppressive fire.  He catches Hoffman’s eye and gestures towards Kirk, who is still fighting with the thing that has Commander Spock.  “Cover the captain!”

 

Hoffman nods his acknowledgment.  He can’t see if Kirk is making any progress, but he can see that the captain’s hands are covered in blood.  Not green blood though, so it isn’t the commander’s.  Kirk must be injured.  That is bad.  Letting the captain get slapped and zapped never looks good in security reports.  The Big Brass tends to frown on things like that.

 

He grimaces when Kirk takes a thorn in the arm.  So not good.  Those things might be poisonous.  He really should get the captain out of here, but that’s not going to happen while Spock is still trapped - not unless he bodily picks the man up and carries him out. It is not the first time he’s been tempted. Still, as inconvenient as it may be for security, that is one of the things he’s grown to admire about his young captain.  Kirk doesn’t leave men behind, and he certainly isn’t going anywhere without Spock.  That’s just a given on the _Enterprise_ , so that means if Hoffman wants to get the captain to safety, he has to get Spock to safely. And he’ll do it, even if he has to rip that pod thing apart with his bare hands.

 

Carefully selecting the route that will expose him to the least amount of enemy fire, he advances towards Kirk’s location, and takes up a position nut to butt with the captain.  This allows him to shield Kirk from the flying thorns and still assist in extracting Commander Spock. He reaches out to take hold of one of the strands wrapped around Spock. The vines are covered in sharp spurs. 

 

Fuck.

 

Well, that explains some of the blood. 

 

The captain shoots him look, white teeth flashing in a ghoulish grin. His face is painted in blood. His blue eyes mischievous.  “Heya, Cupcake!”

 

There was a time Kirk’s use of that nickname would have left Hoffman wanting to tear the man a new one, but the name along with the irreverent young captain have grown on him.

 

“Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat, Karl,” his grandmother would have said.  “ _With time comes insight._ ” 

 

“Captain,” he replies.  “It looked like you could use some help.” 

 

Kirk has gone back to fighting with the fibers.  What he lacks in brute force, he more than makes up for in sheer tenacity.  “Yeah.  Sure,” he pants.  “Help is good. Thanks.”

 

Hoffman digs his safety gloves out of his utility pouch and offers them to the captain, but the young man shakes his head. “Naw.  You use them.  I’m already fucked.  Bones will have to do a regen on me.  He’ll be bitching about it for a week.”

 

Hoffman doesn’t feel right about using gloves when his captain is tearing his hands to shreds, but like Giotto, he has learned the futility of arguing with James T. Kirk.  Only two members of the crew seem able to dissuade Kirk when he has his mind set on something, and as he is neither Spock nor McCoy, Hoffman doesn’t waste time trying; he just pulls on the gloves and gets to work.

 

They make fast progress.  The gloves help, and of course there is the incentive of the shit storm at their back.  Kirk wants Spock out of there, and Hoffman wants Kirk out of there, so there is no holding back.  When the first of the thorns imbeds itself in Hoffman’s lower back, he grunts, and takes a moment to pull it free.

 

He frowns at the bright green spine in annoyance. “Shit. I’ve been hit.” 

 

They have Spock mostly free now.  Kirk has grasped Spock’s shoulder in his good hand and shaking him gingerly.  Trying to rouse him, Hoffman supposes.  The Vulcan’s eyes are dazed and distant.  Kirk pauses long enough to shoot Hoffman a look he supposes is meant to be sympathetic.  “It’ll burn.  And then go numb.  But…” the corner of his mouth twists wryly.  “I’m still alive, so I guess that’s a positive.”  He’s given up on joggling Spock, and has instead placed his hand along the Vulcan’s cheek.  “Spock!  Spock!” he whispers urgently.  “I need you to wake up!  Spock!” He slaps the Vulcan’s cheek lightly, leaving bloody hand prints in his wake. Hoffman finds himself unsettled by the mix of red and green blood painted across Spock’s face.

 

Kirk’s right about the burn.  Like someone has poured acid on his skin.  It hurts like a bitch, but it hadn’t seemed to slow James T.  down any, and there is just no fucking way Hoffman isn’t going to live up to that same standard.

He has to repeat that vow when a second thorn buries itself in his thigh.  He reminds himself he is just doing his duty, taking the thorns for Kirk, for his captain – he may be Starfleet’s golden boy, but unlike most shiny dicks, he is actually a damn good leader.  

The commander seems to be coming out of it.  He is blinking, slowly, like he is waking up from some dream. His lips move, but Hoffman can’t catch anything he is saying. 

 

Kirk, however, seems elated.  “Spock!  You’re back!” Hand pressed against Spock’s cheek, he rubs one thumb over the corner of the Vulcan’s mouth in a gesture Hoffman finds disturbingly intimate.

 

“Spock?” 

 

The Vulcan’s eyes seem to clear just a fraction in response to the captains’ voice.  “Ji… Ji… m.  I ca… can… n… not…”

 

“Don’t worry,” Kirk assures him.  “We got ya!” He slips his good arm around the Vulcan and starts trying to pry him out of the pod.  The commander makes a strange groaning sound and shudders, his eyes sliding closed again.

 

“What the hell…?” Kirk frowns and pulls his hand from behind Spock’s back.  His fingers are tangled with fine, green filaments.  He takes Spock’s weight, carefully tilting the Vulcan forward, and Hoffman can see the lacework of fine threads that stretch between the commander and the wall of the interface module. Eyes round, Kirk cautiously lifts Spock’s uniform shirt and undertunic, exposing bare skin. The filaments have burrowed into the Vulcan’s body, forming a web-like connective lattice between him and the pod. 

 

Hoffman grunts in disgust.  That is so fucked. 

 

Kirk himself seems a bit at a loss.  He tugs cautiously at some of the threads, and they slide free while Spock jerks in his hold. “Oh, shit!”

 

An understatement, Hoffman thinks.

 

The green strands in Kirk’s hold flail weakly, then try to dig into his skin.  He yelps and drops them.

 

Hoffman’s leg is starting to go numb, the detached feeling slowly spreading downward.  This is taking too much time.  “Captain, he says firmly.  “We have to move, now.”

 

“Right,” Kirk agrees, snapping himself back into command mode. “Spock, time to go.” He takes a firm grip around Spock’s waist, braces himself, and bodily hauls his first officer out of the pod.  Spock cries out and trembles, then collapses, nearly taking Kirk down with him. Hoffman reaches out to steady them both. Kirk is staggering under the Vulcan’s weight, and Hoffman remembers that Vulcans have a higher body mass than humans.  Expression set, Kirk starts to totter across the chamber with Spock, but with only one working arm, he can’t get a firm grip. The two are unbalanced, and Spock is dead weight, his feet dragging behind him. 

 

Hoffman stays close, trying to keep them covered, but at this rate, they are going to get smoked out here.

 

“Captain,” he asserts, “We can move faster, if you let me take him.”

 

He does not actually give Kirk time to consider, being fairly certain he will decline, but rather horns in and takes the Vulcan out of Kirk’s grasp, hoisting the commander over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Kirk looks as though he is about to protest, but then a lashing creeper tries to eviscerate both of them, and they are too busy defending themselves to worry about proprietary rights.

 

They are half way across the chamber when Hoffman’s leg gives out.   It has gone lifeless and no longer wants to support him. He collapses to one knee, nearly dislodging his hold on Spock. 

 

Kirk is beside him in an instant.

 

“Leg’s gone.” Hoffman tells him as Kirk takes a grip under his elbow and tries to lever him to his feet. However, with only one working arm, the captain proves unable to lift the combined weight of Hoffman and the unconscious Vulcan.   Spitting out a few muttered words Hoffman recognizes as a fusion of Andorian and Klingon profanity, Kirk takes a stance at Hoffman’s side.  He spins and twists, shooting sporadically as he tries to cover both Hoffman and his first officer. 

 

“You’d better take him,” Hoffman grunts, shifting his hold on the Vulcan in order to hand him over to the captain. 

 

He does not get the chance. 

 

As usual, Chief Giotto is on top of things.  There is a spat of suppressive fire and two security officers jog to their aid. Well, Morrell jogs.  Z-nam’T’eh’s approach is closer to a slither. They ease Spock out of Hoffman’s grip and scurry towards the exit.  Kirk takes a couple abortive steps in their wake, then turns and crouches down beside Hoffman.  “Come on, Cupcake.  Time to get the hell outta Dodge.”

 

“You go on, sir,” Hoffman tells him striving for stoic and telling himself there are worse ways to die than by sacrificing yourself to save the shit-hot _Enterprise_ command team.

 

Kirk shakes his head and slips an arm around Hoffman’s waist.  “Sorry Lieutenant.  We’re getting out of here together, so you can either help me, or I’ll just drag you by your dick.  Which is it going to be?”

Once again, Hoffman feels fortunate that he agreed to remain aboard _Enterprise_ when Kirk was given the captaincy.  It had been a near thing, as Hoffman’s initial impressions of Kirk had been less that flattering. _“_ _Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat,”_ indeed _._

“No need for that, sir.”

 

With a grunt, Hoffman throws an arm over the captain’s shoulders, leans heavily against him, and uses his good leg to heave himself upward. 

 

He has just one good leg. Kirk, only one working arm.  Between them, they manage to stagger, hop, and shuffle past the pair of red-shirts guarding the chamber opening and beyond – to the relative safety of a corridor formed by an arched thicket of tangled vegetation.  The smell of plantlife is ripe and moist around them, like the heavy air of the botany greenhouse on _Enterprise_. Medical personnel descend upon them like flies, easing them apart.  Kirk hands Hoffman into their care, but somehow manages to discourage the hovering med techs from checking him out, waving their scanners and hypos aside impatiently. Hoffman sees him gaze further down the corridor, where a knot of fevered activity indicates the presence of McCoy and some techs tending to Commander Spock.  Kirk’s fists clench, and he gnaws on his lip for a moment before turning away and striding over to Chief Giotto.  Hoffman can’t hear what is being said, but both men are stiff with tension. 

 

“Here, this will help.”  A throaty feminine voice pulls his attention and he turns to the woman crouching down beside him.  There is a hiss; a hypo is presses against his arm. He recognizes Chapel, a tall, aristocratic blonde who serves as McCoy’s head nurse and all around XO in Sickbay.  “It will neutralize the anesthetic agent in your system.”

 

The numbness immediately begins to fade, replaced once again by a burning sensation.  He grunts in discomfort and Chapel gives him a wan smile while patting him lightly on the arm.  “I know, but it will pass quickly. Just sit here for a minute.  You’ll be fine.”

 

Kirk and Giotto are engaged in rapid-fire discussion, but the young Captain keeps shooting fleeting glances towards his CMO’s position.  Their swift exchange ends with a curt nod from Kirk, who slaps Giotto on the shoulder and heads swiftly towards McCoy.  His path takes him past Hoffman who is stretched out across the corridor, his legs impeding traffic. Embarrassed, Hoffman tries to pull his lower limbs out of the way, but he hasn’t yet regained full control, and his movements are spasmodic and ineffective.  Kirk never slows, but hops over him easily.  However, rather than hurrying past, he stops and squats down beside the security officer.

 

“Hey, how are you doing?”

 

Hoffman blinks at him in surprise.  “Sir?”

 

“You took two of those things.  How are you feeling?”

 

Hoffman has no doubt that Kirk is exceedingly anxious to get to Commander Spock, yet here he is taking the time to check in with him.  “I’m fine, sir.  They said it will pass in a few minutes.  I’ll be ready to go back in if you need me to.”

 

Kirk smiles, and reaches out to squeeze his shoulder.  “No need for that.  We’re pulling out of here as soon as Commander Spock is stable.” His gaze darts towards the injured first officer and back.  “Thanks for your help, by the way.”

 

“Just doing my duty, sir.”

 

“And doing it well, too.”  Another quick squeeze, a flash of a grim smile, and then he is gone.

 

Hoffman watches him go, leaning back against the tangle of vines and listening to his Oma’s amused voice in his ear, “ _Remember I told you so, Mauschen._ _Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat.”_

 ***

 

 **Glossary:**   (With thanks to the various internet sources, and a bit of artistic license.)

 

g = German

msp = Military speak

 

FNG – (msp) Fucking New Girl (or Guy)

Kommt Zeit, kommt Rat – (g) With time comes insight

Mauschen – (g) little mouse

Oma – (g) grandmother

shiny dicks – (msp) officers higher up in the military ranking system

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

**TERTIARY:**

**Indigo (blue-violet)** ** & Magenta (red-violet)**

Ur’Vidian tentacles are _magenta_.

When wounded, Ur’Vidians bleed _indigo_.

 

 ***

 

Hikaru Sulu dances sideways, blade flashing as he brings it down in a _kesa giri_ strike, severing reddish-violet tentacles.  His opponent flails its hundreds of remaining limbs in a wild frenzy as the amputated appendages fall to the damp ground and lie twitching, leaking a deep blue-violet ichor.  Sulu backpedals, dodging the grasping, sucker covered limbs of his nearly three-meter tall adversary. The young  Starfleet officer looks for an opening.  Dashing under a sweep of thrashing limbs, he spins into a graceful _mayoko giri_ which bi-sects the thick trunk of the Ur’Vidian and takes it down.  He pauses a moment to wipe a trickle of sweat from his brow.  The humid air is cloying and heavy, the viscous ground unsteady under his feet.  He is tiring.  To his left, he glimpses a flash of light, satin green – the captain’s dress tunic - somewhere in the midst of a knot of undulating Ur’Vidian bodies.  He grimaces in frustration.  They have the captain. He catches sight of Commander Spock, a whirl of Vulcan rage as he literally rips limbs from another of their attackers in his desperate struggle to get to the captain. Sulu wonders if Kirk is even alive, or if he, like many of the security team, has been stung into submission and brutally devoured.

 

For his part, Sulu’s current efforts are focused upon a figure in gold.  Grappling in the multi-tentacled embrace of a large Ur’Vidian clan elder, Pavel Chekov is trying desperately to keep from falling victim to either the tooth-lined maw atop his attacker’s stocky, cylindrical body, or to the paralytic sting of the fringe of feelers surrounding the nightmare of a mouth.  So far, Chekov has managed to evade both, but Sulu can see that the ensign’s efforts are growing weaker.  He must act quickly. Baring his teeth in challenge, Sulu slips into _Jodan Kamae_ and steps forward.  Not for the first time, he wonders if exploring new planets and new civilizations is really supposed to be this fucked-up, or if the universe has some perverse grudge against the _Enterprise_ and her crew.

 

The attack came without warning.  There had been nothing to alert them.  No hint that they had been invited to attend the Ur’Vidian banquet, not as honored guests, but rather as the main course.  Granted, ever since the _Enterprise_ made first contact with the actiniaria-like inhabitants of Ur’Vidia, interspecies communication has  proven somewhat problematic.  The Ur’Vidians do not communicate verbally, but rather convey meaning through pheromones, electrical impulses, and a minutia of kinesics through use of their bioluminescent appendages.  And as each one has numerous tentacles surrounding its splotchy, column- shaped, magenta-toned body, a single Ur’Vidian can conceivably carry on hundreds of informational transfers simultaneously. 

 

Despite Lieutenant Uhura and her linguistic team’s best efforts, there have been several instances of miscommunication between the non-vocal natives and the crew of _Enterprise_.  Most have been harmless, though occasionally embarrassing, such as when Kirk’s initial request for a good-will exchange of cultural knowledge had apparently been interpreted as a desire to engage in sexual reproduction with the clan leader.  However, Sulu is quite certain that, despite the inherent difficulties of heterospecific translation, Uhura would never have let something like, “Please join us for dinner so we may eat you,” slip by without noticing.

 

The Ur’Vidians are clever, Sulu has to give them that.  In a gesture of galactic friendship, Kirk and most of the invited guests had beamed down unarmed.  Thus, their phaser-toting security escort had been the first members of the landing party targeted in the ambush.  The doomed security personnel had been taken completely by surprise when the Ur’Vidians suddenly swarmed over them, dispatching them with terrifying efficiency. 

 

Sulu had been seated atop a living tuffet of spongy, organic material, enjoying a fish-based soup dish, when the Ur’Vidians made their move.  Seated a short distance away, the captain and Mister Spock had been picking at a plate of rather colorful seaweed when the clan leader squatting beside Kirk suddenly reared to its impressive full height and seized John Reed, the security officer assigned to Kirk.  Reed had given a yelp of surprise as he was lifted into the air, secure in the grip of multiple limbs.  Shouting in fear and pain, the young security officer had been shoved headfirst into the clan leader’s open maw.  Kirk had lurched to his feet just as the Ur’Vidian leader’s mouth snapped shut with a slushy, wet, crunch. 

 

The screaming had stopped.

 

Time itself seemed to pause in shock…

 

Then, the decapitated body of John Reed had tumbled out of the grip of the Ur’Vidian, and slid to the ground, drenching Kirk with a gout of arterial blood.

 

Sulu had a mere instant to note the blur of science dress-blue as Spock snatched Kirk out of the reach of the Ur’Vidian leader. 

 

Then chaos erupted. 

 

Screams and shouts had burst forth, as, all across the open expanse of marshy land being used for the banquet, Ur’Vidians turned upon their guests.  Sulu had watched in horror as fellow crewmembers in security red were besieged, many being stung into quiescence or dismembered before they had time to draw their weapons.  Efforts to contact the ship resulted in nothing but static.  Apparently, the Ur’Vidians had planned well, dropping a dampening field over the area as soon as the attack began.

 

However, true to their training, the _Enterprise_ crew reacted quickly.  They hadn’t gained a reputation for being Starfleet’s finest for nothing.

 

Even as Sulu had thrown himself out of the reach of the Ur’Vidian that was shuffling towards him, he’d seen Uhura crouch to retrieve Reed’s weapon from his holster and dash after Commander Spock.  The whine of phaser fire from various positions around the marsh had further reassured him that Team _Enterprise_ was still kicking butt.

 

As he’d rolled to his feet, he had retrieved his specially-designed retractable Katana from its decorative scabbard at his side.  Although Kirk had asked the landing party to eschew phasers, he had allowed Sulu to wear the sword as part of his dress uniform.  Engineer Scott was similarly armed with a ceremonial sgian dubh tucked into his boot.  The hand-held weapons might not be of much use against eight foot tall, multi-limbed, mobile, stinging polyps, but they provided some means of defense.

 

He had begun to dash after Uhura, when a familiar voice caught him short.  “Hikaru!  Hikaru!”

 

Pavel? 

 

“Hikaru!  _Pomogite mne!_   Help!”

 

There had been a note of pained desperation in Chekov’s voice that he wasn’t used to hearing from his unfailingly cheerful friend.  Spinning around, Sulu had searched the melee of undulating Ur’Vidian bodies and brightly garbed Starfleet personnel for the young navigator.  He’d caught sight of him grappling in the multi-tentacled clutches of one of their Ur’Vidian hosts.  Unfortunately, his efforts to enact an immediate rescue had been hampered by the interference of a pair of common class Ur’Vidians.  Suffused cerise with distress and anger, the two had shuffled into position, effectively blocking Sulu from reaching the Ur’Vidian clan elder who held Chekov captive.  Thanks to their cultural briefings on board, Sulu understood something of Ur’Vidian society.  He knew the common class were little more than servants who had little say in their lives.  These two had likely only been doing what their leaders had ordered.  However, that did not stop Sulu from engaging them with deadly intent.

 

The skirmish had been brief, for common class Ur’Vidians were apparently more adept at serving fish soup than at combat. 

 

Presently, however, Sulu is finding the large clan elder, which has Chekov clasped in its supple grip, to be more difficult to defeat.  He circles cautiously, seeking an opening.  The Ur’Vidian’s numerous eyes swivel nervously in his direction, the fuchsia orbs bobbing and waving on their eyestalks as they follow his movements.   
At least the Ur’Vidian’s attention is focused upon Sulu, which seems to be giving Chekov a break.  The elder no longer seems intent upon shoving the protesting navigator into its mouth, but rather is content to merely clutch him in an intractable embrace while watching Sulu closely.

 

 

“Okay, big guy,” Sulu mutters under his breath.  “It’s calamari time.”

As he steps forward, the Ur’Vidian proves it is an observant adversary.  Not only has it apparently learned to anticipate Sulu’s fighting style, but it has also picked up something of human interaction.  As Sulu shifts his Katana into position for a side cut, he sees the creature’s tentacles tighten upon Chekov, and his friend suddenly squirms, crying out in pain.  “Ah… ah…  I think it is … breaking… me!”  His voice is strained and breathless, his cheeks flushed pink.

With a grimace, Sulu steps back.  The tentacles relax and Chekov moans in relief. 

Son of a bitch. 

Sulu eyes his opponent in chagrin.  The Ur’Vidian is using Chekov as a pawn, threatening him to keep Sulu’s attack at bay.  It is a classic hostage play, but also a situation for which he has trained.  So has Chekov. 

Negotiation is out.  They have no time, and the Ur’Vidians don’t seem open to re-evaluating their position.  Besides, unlike Uhura, Sulu does not have a clue which gestures might mean, “Let’s discuss this like civilized beings.”  However, he is fairly sure the thrashing tentacles that keep flicking in his direction are saying something far different.  It is also unlikely, under the circumstances, that the cavalry is going to show up with a phaser rifle, so it looks like it is up to him and his Katana.

With a silent apology to his friend, Sulu takes a series of deep breaths and launches into a swift, whirling attack. The Ur’Vidian responds by using Chekov to try and sweep Sulu off his feet.  Sulu finds himself leaping aside to avoid being knocked over by his friend, but Chekov is doing his best to interfere with the Ur’Vidian’s plans, kicking and punching his captor.  He manages to slow down the Ur’Vidian long enough for Sulu to dart in and sever the limbs holding the younger man hostage. As Chekov tumbles free, the Ur’Vidian shakes wildly in agitation, limbs whipping around like branches in a cyclone.  Enraged, it shambles towards Sulu, trying to envelope him in a tangle of writhing limbs.  Maintaining his calm in the face of his opponent’s fury, Sulu ducks low, thrusting at the center of the Ur’Vidian’s stocky trunk.  His sword sinks deep into the gelatinous body of the creature.  The Ur’Vidian elder quivers and lets out a strange whistling sound.  Sulu pulls his blade free at an angle, slicing through the jelly-like tissue.  A thick slab of gummy flesh peels away from the Ur’Vidian’s core, leaving a gaping wound.  The Ur’Vidian shudders again, more deeply this time, swaying unsteadily.  Eyes widening, Sulu tries to scramble free, but the Ur’Vidian topples, bearing Sulu to the ground and flattening him beneath a gummy mass of flesh. 

As he struggles for breath, Sulu makes another discovery.  Up close and personal, Ur’Vidians smell unpleasantly of dead fish.

The heavy weight of the dead Ur’Vidian slowly rolls off of him, and he finds himself looking up into the drawn face of Pavel Chekov.  Upon seeing him, his shipmate breaks into a tired, yet delighted smile.  “You are breathing!  _Prikol’no!_   I was worrying you might be squashed.”

With a groan, Sulu drags himself into a sitting position and swipes ineffectually at the gooey slime coating his clothes and skin.  “No.  I’m fine.  Just a little winded.”

Chekov grins and grasps Sulu by the forearm, giving his a small squeeze.  “ _Spasibo_ ,” he laughs breathlessly.  “You are saving me with awesome fencing skills!” 

Sulu answers with small, embarrassed grin of his own.  Glancing around, he notes that skirmishes between Ur’Vidians and _Enterprise_ personnel are still ongoing, and that, unfortunately, reinforcements have yet to arrive.  Reaching out, he takes Chekov by the arm and tries to pull him down behind the cover of the fallen Ur’Vidian.  As Sulu tugs, Chekov hisses and turns pale, tears springing to his eyes.  Sulu frowns and let’s go immediately.  “What’s wrong with your arm?

Chekov tries for a nonchalant shrug, but instead freezes.  Face blanching, he clutches at his arm.  “I am thinking it is pulled out of the socket.”

Remembering some of the glimpses he’s had of Starfleet personnel literately being ripped apart by the Ur’Vidians, Sulu swallows hard.  He is very glad he’d come to Chekov’s aid as quickly as he had.  “Yeah.  It might be dislocated, but that’s an easy fix.  We need to get you aboard.”

“ _Nyet_.”  Chekov’s expression is set and stubborn, looking far too earnest on his young face. “That is taking too much time.  You can set it, _da_?  You took the basic med classes at the Academy.”

 

“No,” Sulu counters with a brisk shake of his head.  “I know you want to help fight, but I’m no doctor.  Besides, you have no weapon and hand to hand against these guys is just going to get you eaten.”  He leans forward, catching the younger man with his gaze, trying to convey the urgent nature of his words.  “The best thing you can do is try to get outside the dampening field and contact the ship.  We don’t know if anyone has managed yet, and we need them to know what is going on down here.”  Looking around, he winces at the fracas surrounding them.  Things are definitely not looking good for Team _Enterprise_.  “Right now we are outmanned and out gunned.  We need help fast.  I’d go myself, but I actually have a weapon and can still fight.  I’m needed here.”

 

Chekov looks miserable, but nods in agreement.  “Yes.  I will bring help.  I promise.”

 

“You do that.  Or just get them to beam us the hell out of here.  At this point, I’m not picky.”  Hoisting himself to his feet with a groan, Sulu wipes his blade clean against the silken fabric of his shirt sleeve, then spares one last glance for his friend.  Chekov is crouching in shadows, waiting to make a run for the outer edges of the banquet grounds, and Sulu feels a catch in his throat as he wonders if they will ever see each other again.  “Be careful,” he cautions.

 

“You also,” Chekov replies.  “You still owe me dinner for losing that bet about those Sinthian dancing girls.”

 

Sulu waves an admonishing finger.  “That bet is still under dispute.”  Bending low, he scuttles out into the open, heading towards the nearest sounds of phaser fire.

 

 ***

 

**SECONDARY:**

**Porphyrous (purple)**

 

 The sting of an Ur’Vidian leaves a _porphyrous_ welt.

 ***

 

Spock is drenched in syrupy ichors, his hands still trembling in the aftermath of his frenzied attack upon the Ur’Vidians.  In his arms, he cradles the captain of the _Enterprise_ , a Human he has come to call friend.  Aside from his laborious wheezing, Kirk lies quiescent - uncharacteristically so.  Hands that recently tore Ur’Vidian limb from limb, now tend Jim Kirk with all the care afforded a newborn.   

 

At Spock’s side, Nyota Uhura is making soft sounds of frustration deep in her throat.  Her long hair, once artfully styled in a soft wave, is now disordered and begrimed with gore.  With an exasperated huff, she hands him the phaser and takes a moment to strip the tangled mass away from her face.  With a few deft moves, she fashions a simple bun to hold it back.

 

Under normal circumstance, Spock would find this technique captivating and inquire as to the mechanics, but these are not normal circumstances.  He files away his interest to pursue at a later time, should they survive.  He calculates there is a probability ratio of 76 to 100 that they will have the opportunity to enter into a conversation on the topic.

 

Nyota takes the phaser back.  Their fingers brush.  She is agitated, her usual composure compromised.  He can feel her enmity toward the Ur’Vidians battering against his already weakened mental shields.  He breathes deeply, striving to suppress his own emotions, seeking the objectivity of dispassion.  Only then does he trust himself to further evaluate the captain’s current condition.

 

They have taken refuge behind a large calcareous structure, possibly formed by the exoskeletons of some species of coral-like creature.  The divaricated limestone formation provides an exiguous measure of cover. 

 

While Nyota provides coverfire, Spock assesses Jim’s injuries.  The purple, ecchymosed wheal on the side of Kirk’s neck has already swollen to 3.2 centimeters in diameter, and is still expanding.  At the center, a small, weeping puncture mark confirms a nematocyst sting from an Ur’Vidian.  The afflicted area has turned a disconcerting shade of deep aubergine, radiating outward in a wash of violet and plum where the underlying tissue is growing necrotic.  Apparently, there is a strong cytotoxic element to the Ur’Vidian’s venom.  Kirk’s face, neck and hands are erythematic, the flush extending under his clothing.  His eye lids and tongue are swollen, and his lips tinged blue.  Under Spock’s fingers, the pulse in Jim’s wrist trips in a disconcertingly erratic staccato as though his heart is considering whether it is worth the effort to continue beating. The fluttering heartbeat suggests the presence of a hemotoxin in the poison as well. Kirk’s breathing is irregular and dyspneic, his open mouth straining to pull in oxygen like an aquatic dweller stranded on land.  His eyes are rolled back in his head, showing eerie white crescents through half open lids.  These signs are denotative of anaphylactic shock, and Spock suspects there may also be a neurotoxic quality to the injectable.  The Ur’Vidian venom is obviously a complex combination of proteins and enzymes with unfortunate effects on the human system.  However, Spock has witnessed other Human Starfleet personnel being stung by the Ur’Vidians, and the resulting paralysis, although undesirable, has not been this severe.  This may evince yet another manifestations of the captain’s atopy.  On the other hand, Spock reflects, it must also be taken into consideration that most of those stung had also been at least partially consumed within a short period.  Thus, there is no way to accurately determine whether they would have suffered similar symptoms had they survived long enough to do so.  Whether the captain’s reaction is atypical or not, it is unequivocally life-threatening.  They must get him away from the Ur’Vidian dampening field and transported aboard the _Enterprise_ with all haste. 

 

For one of the few times he can recall, Spock regrets Doctor McCoy’s absence.  The CMO had chosen not chose to accompany the landing party to the proffered banquet, claiming the Ur’Vidians gave him the “heebie-jeebies.”  Whatever these “heebie-jeebies” were, Spock wishes the entire complement of the _Enterprise_ had been susceptible.

 

Uhura is checking the phaser.  She curses in some obscure Klingon dialect.  Spock absently translates the phrase as something to do with intestinal problems and a lack of facilities.  “I’m losing the charge,” she snaps.  “The dampening field must be affecting the energy inverter.”

 

Spock does not find this unexpected news.  Considering the negating effect of the energy-suppression zone, he had presumed the phasers, like their communicators, would simply not function.  That the weapons have been operational to this point has proven fortuitous in their altercation with the Ur’Vidians, and it is regrettable that the members of the landing party will soon be deprived of their most effective means of defense.  Spock revises his earlier estimation of their odds of survival downward from 76% to 34%, and strokes a hand through Jim’s sweat-damp hair.  “That is… unpropitious.”  

 

Uhura swears again, and bangs the heel of her hand against her phaser, as though doing so might encourage it to last longer.  “What do you suggest?”

 

“It appears we are out of options.  If we wish the captain to live, we must get him medical aid immediately, and your phaser will soon become inoperative.  I submit that our best recourse under these circumstances is to make a sustained effort to reach the edges of the dampening field and contact the ship.”

 

She presses her lips together, quashing what might have been a fond smile.  “You mean we should make a run for it.”

 

Spock considers.  Human language is a constant source of fascination.  “I believe that is what I said.”  Carefully, he lifts Kirk into his arms.  “I will carry the captain.”  One eyebrow shifts in an inquiry.  “If you will cover our retreat?”

 

She answers with a quick, affirmative nod. 

 

At the edge of their meager shelter, he pauses for a moment, glancing back at the exceptional young woman huddled in the shadows of the twisted coral - Nyota Uhura, the first Human, aside from his mother, to truly breech his self-imposed solitude.  Their relationship has awoken in him a confusing disorder of emotions - long suppressed _feelings_ with which he still grapples as he strives to understand and integrate.  She is… _ashayam_. 

 

“Nyota, you will be careful?”

 

He tries to conceal his apprehension, but from the knowing look she gives him, he is less than successful.  “Just get him to safety, Spock.  Don’t worry about me.  I’ll be right behind you.”

 

Spock runs.

 

Vulcan strength means that his sprint is not impeded by carrying the captain.  Kirk is fragile in his arms, much too inconsequential a weight for someone with such presence.  It seems as though Jim could simply fade into nothingness between one heartbeat and the next.

 

Instinctively, Spock nestles him closer.

 

He bends low, striving to shield his captain and friend from further injury.  His long legs eat up the marshy ground, propelling him towards the edge of the meadow and, theoretically, beyond the effect of the dampening field.  An Ur’Vidian elder suddenly rises before him, limbs whipping in a violent frenzy – then jerks back as phaser fire from over Spock’s shoulder flashes and burns through several tentacles.  Spock’s trajectory shifts only slightly, allowing him to skirt the outer reach of the now huddled Ur’Vidian. 

 

He continues on.

 

The edge of the marshland is closing.  He sees familiar figures moving, and the whirling lights of the transporter as reinforcements begin to arrive.  “Soon, Jim,” he soothes, his breathing somewhat heavier than norm due to his exertions.  “We are almost beyond the perimeter of the dampening effect.”

 

He is mere meters from the edge when he hears Nyota scream, a high pitched shriek that resonates with indignation and fear. 

 

Spock stumbles, rhythm lost, and almost falls.  His ankle twists beneath him, and he feels something snap.  Sharp, fiery pain flares the length of his leg.  He staggers for a moment trying to keep his footing.  His right leg does not want to support him.  He has damaged something.  Protectively hugging Jim to his chest, he turns. He feels sick and tight with tension, dreading what he might see.  A small voice in his mind is chanting, _‘rai.  rai.  rai.  rai.’_

An Ur’Vidian has Nyota, literally dangling her upside down by one leg while she twists in the air, spitting invectives.  As he watches, it slams her down, trying to bash her head against the ground.  She has the presence of mind to cover her head with her arms and curl into the impact. 

 

“Nyota!”  Spock staggers a few steps in her direction. In his hold, Kirk begins to convulse.  Spock looks down at his charge in horror.  The little chant gets louder.  _‘rai.  rai.  rai.  rai.’_

The Ur’Vidian is now swinging Nyota gently in the air.  It lightly tosses her from one tentacle to another, catching her around the waist and spinning her enthusiastically.  Her hair fans out in a dark curtain. 

 

It is toying with her, Spock realizes.  Like a sehlat playing with prey.  The sight fills him with impotent rage.  He growls, “Nyota!  No!” and takes another determined step in her direction.  Agony spikes along his leg.  It is inconsequential.  He dismisses it.

 

Uhura is wriggling in the grip of the Ur’Vidian, pushing ineffectively at the tentacle wrapped around her waist.  “S'chn T'gai Spock,” she shouts, voice sharp and imperious, her pronunciation as near flawless as possible for human tongue.  “Don’t you dare!  You get the captain out of here!”

 

He pauses, torn, breath heaving in his chest.  Jim is shaking in his arms.  Turning grey.  Dying.

 

No time. 

 

There is no time.

 

_‘rai.  rai.  rai.  rai.’_

 

“Go now!”  Nyota yells, and he knows that not all of her ire is directed at the Ur’Vidian.  “Now!  Or I swear…  I’ll shove… your biocomp… so far up… your….”

 

Whatever the threat, it is lost in a shriek as the Ur’Vidian tosses her up in the air and catches her again as she tumbles out of control, legs and arms flung wide.

 

_Ashayam!_

 

Spock heaves one great breath, sucking at the air as though his lungs have collapsed, then lets go with a wild howl of primal fury and grief that roars through him like the hot wind of the Paki’sbahshi desert.  In that moment, he is _Kal-ap-ton_ – Grief given life.  He is _Kat-cheleb_ – Anger given breath.  He is _Trufemu_ – the Martyr personified. 

 

Trembling, and half blinded by turmoil, he turns his back on Nyota and stumbles towards the edge of the marshland.  There lies _Oigen’rik’korsovaya_ , both the promise of his salvation and the threat of damnation, as it is told in the _storaya_. 

 

*******

**PRIMARY:**

**Sapphire (blue)**

 

Jim Kirk’s eyes shine _sapphire_ under the Sickbay lights.

 ***

 

Jim Kirk has blue eyes – brilliant blue eyes.  Leonard McCoy knows this, but it is not something he dwells upon in particular.  But at certain moments, when Jim flashes him a glance under those thick lashes, or is wound up with passionate enthusiasm or vexation, his eyes gleam with laser-energy, and McCoy is stuck once again with just how very blue they are. 

 

Now, is such a moment.  The last few hours have been hell, and Leonard hasn’t been sure he would ever see the sapphire of those eyes again.  When Commander Spock had arrived carrying the captain, Jim Kirk had been closer to dead than alive.  So seeing Kirk’s eyes finally twitch open, blinking as they take in the hustle and bustle of Sickbay, leave McCoy giddy with relief an perhaps a bit misty eyed.

 

He’s lost his practice.

 

He’s lost his wife.

 

He’s lost his daughter.

 

He’ll be damned if he is going to lose Jim Kirk without a hell of a fight. 

 

“Jim…”  McCoy dodges a nurse to hurry to Kirk’s bedside.  With the high number of casualties resulting from the Ur’Vidian’s attack, he hasn’t exactly been able to sit vigil, but he’s been hyper-aware of Kirk’s condition since the moment Spock had hobbled into Sickbay on a fractured medial malleolus, the limp body of the captain cradled in his arms.

 

Kirk’s eyes stop roving and settle on McCoy.  “Bones….?” The voice is thin and raspy, but hearing his silly nickname again fills McCoy with joy. 

 

“Well now, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”  Past experience has McCoy well trained.  He is already reaching out to press down on a shoulder, keeping Kirk supine.  He knows what is coming.

 

Kirk’s eyes go wide as memory returns, and he immediately struggles to sit up.  “The Ur’Vidians…  They attacked.  My people…  I have to…”

 

“You don’t have to do anything except stay put,” McCoy orders, adding a second hand to press Kirk into the mattress by both shoulders.  “We have it covered.”

 

“But…”

 

“No ‘buts’ Jim,” McCoy cuts him off, adopting his fiercest scowl - for all the good it will do.  “I mean it.  I didn’t put all that effort into patching you up just to have you go gallivantin’ off and undo my handiwork.”

 

“Bones…”  The familiar whine is creeping in, the one that usually chafes, but today Leonard can forgive anything. 

 

“Look,” he says, knowing he’ll have a better chance keeping Kirk under lock and key if he can reassure him the ship isn’t going to implode without him.  “Spock has a handle on it.  Chekov worked out the calculations, and we punched through the dampening field.  Everyone is back aboard, and the injured are being treated.”  He shakes his head ruefully.  The _Enterprise_ crew had been caught with their britches down, and the cost had been high.  “Apparently we ended up pawns in some kind of power struggle among warring factions of those Ur’Vidian bastards.  We’re maintaining orbit while we contact Starfleet for further instructions.” 

 

He conveniently fails to mention the eight dead crewmembers whose bodies have been retrieved, the two who died of massive wounds while being treated in Sickbay or the four missing and presumed eaten.  Fourteen dead.  They’ve just suffered their greatest losses on any mission since starting their tour of duty, and there is a general sense of shock aboard.  He’ll spare Jim that as long as he can.  The loss of even one life weighs too heavily on the kid, and he’s in for a heap of hurt.  He can already see shadows of guilt darkening those bright eyes.  His grip on Kirk’ shoulders tightens involuntarily.  “You couldn’t have known, kid.  No one could.”

 

The haunted look doesn’t retreat, and McCoy sighs, his head dropping.  He knows Kirk’s strong sense of personal responsibility for his crew is both a blessing and a curse.  It tend to encourage feelings of camaraderie and undying loyalty in those aboard the _Enterprise_ , but it also tears Jim apart when there is a death among the crew.

 

Speaking past the tightening in his chest, he grates out, “When Spock brought you in here, you were grey, Jim.  You weren’t breathing, and I thought you were dead.”  He catches Kirk’s eye, and gives him a small shake.  “So you’re going to stay put till I clear you, or I swear, I’ll hypo you.”

 

Kirk must see something in his face, for he relaxes back with a nod, the fight going out of him.  “Okay, but I need to talk to Spock.”

 

McCoy acknowledges that with a sour grunt, releasing Kirk’s shoulders now that he knows the kid isn’t going to bolt.  “Okay, you can either wait till I clear you, or I can com him.  He asked to be notified when you woke up anyway…”  He glances across the room at the com unit and runs a finger across his upper lip as he muses absently, “Besides if I can get him in here that will give me an excuse to do a bone-knit on that ankle of his.”

 

And kicks himself when Kirk’s demeanor shifts from resigned to alarmed once again.  “What’s wrong with Spock?  What happened to him?”

 

“He’s fine,” McCoy hastily reassures, making placating gestures with his hands.  “He fractured his ankle is all.  He’s in a temporary pressure cast.” 

 

Kirk seems to be wavering between lying back, and leaping to his feet.  “But he _is_ okay?”

 

“Anal and uppity as always.  Don’t worry about him, Jim.  It apparently takes more than an attack by giant, man-eating sea anemones to ruffle his feathers.” 

 

That wasn’t entirely the truth, but McCoy isn’t about to worry Jim any further.  In actuality, the Spock that had come bursting through the doors of Sickbay with Kirk nestled in his arms had been anything but composed.  Clothes torn, hair a disarray, dripping with gore, the Vulcan had stood panting heavily and gazing down at Kirk with an expression McCoy could only describe as broken.  He hadn’t seen such raw emotion from the Commander since the day of Vulcan’s destruction and his mother’s death.  Spock’s dark eyes when they lifted and found his own had been filled with a pleading desperation.  “The captain…  Please.  You must help Jim.”

 

Then Leonard and his team had taken possession of Kirk, and the doctor had lost tract of the Vulcan, only learning later that Spock had beamed back down to the planet to assist in the rescue of the remaining members of the landing party.

 

The command crew had taken a beating.  Besides the injuries Kirk had acquired, there was Spock’s tibial fracture, Chekov’s dislocated shoulder and tears to his glenoid labrum, and Sulu’s patchwork of nasty contusions and abrasions.  Added to that were those still confined to Sickbay, Uhura, with a fractured pelvis and concussion, and Mister Scott who had undergone surgery for crush injuries.  But it was the Security Division that was hardest hit.  Security Chief Giotto was still critical and ten of the fourteen lost had been from Security.

 

Yet more facts Leonard has decided to keep to himself for the time being.

 

Kirk is eyeing him warily.  It is the look that reminds McCoy that Jim’s veneer of casual frivolity masks a razor sharp mind.  Kirk can read people very well.  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

 

He huffs in exasperation as he prepares a stimulant.  “I’m not lying.”  And he isn’t.  He is just leaving out a few details. He presses the hypo into Jim’s neck, expertly dodging Kirk’s attempt to knock it aside.  “That should help.”

 

Once more, Kirk falls back on the biobed, pale under the bright overhead lighting.  “I hate this.”

 

McCoy pats his shoulder in complete understanding.  “I know you do, and I promise I’ll let you out of here just as soon as I’m convinced you’re not going to bottom out on the bridge.”  He studies the readings above the biobed with a scowl.  Kirk may still look like hell, but the readings all assure him that the kid is stable enough to be released.  Not exactly fit as a fiddle but close enough.  Still, he’ll trust good old fashioned hands-on diagnostics over computer readouts any day.  Reaching out, he wraps a hand around Jim’s wrist, automatically seeking the radial pulse point.  The pulse throbs, reassuringly steady under his fingers.  _Alive_ , it sings.  _He’s alive_.  And he feels just a bit of the anxiety of the last few hours bleed away.

 

A wan smile tugs up one corner of Kirk’s mouth.  “Thanks, Bones. I’m sorry I scared you.”

 

McCoy feels a lump rise in his throat and swallows it down.  “It’s okay, he mutters, battling to keep his emotions in check.  “Just don’t do it again.”

 

That earns him a patented Kirk grin.  “No promises.”

 

He has to make a concerted effort to uncurl his grip from around Kirk’s wrist, but allows his touch to linger against warm skin for a moment - a small personal indulgence.  Then he forces himself to step away from the bedside.  As long as he has Jim in that bed, he can keep him safe, or relatively safe, in a universe filled with unexpected dangers.  They both know it.  They also both know it can’t be. Starship captains don’t have that luxury, and Jim Kirk would never accept it even if he did.  “You’re free to go,” he mutters, hating himself for the words and knowing there is nothing else he can say. 

 

Kirk sits up with a groan, and for a moment, the blue eyes hold his own, and in that steady gaze Leonard reads awareness and a profound sadness.  Then Jim slips off the bed, reaching out to give McCoy’s shoulder a squeeze before being swallowed up by the bustle of sickbay personnel.

 

Leonard shouts after him, “And when you’re finished playing patty-cake with that pointy-eared computer, send him my way, would you?  He owes me an hour in the regen unit.” 

 

Kirk waves his affirmation as he slips out the door.  McCoy watches him go, his chest hollow and aching, knowing Jim’s short reprieve has come to an end.  Soon the crushing realities of command will bury him once more.

 

“Dammit,” McCoy spits, tossing the spent hypo cartridge into the waste chute and wishing he could somehow insulate Kirk from a universe of hard knocks.

 

Leonard McCoy has always felt the need to fix things.  Even as a child, he found it more distressful to see others suffering than to suffer himself.  He is well aware that his desire to take away the pain of the world is not necessarily healthy for himself or those around him.  His determination to rescue his wife from every responsibility had helped undermine his marriage by enabling her dependency.  That, coupled with his inability to remain emotionally detached from his patients, had led to depression and drink.  But here, serving aboard the _Enterprise_ , he’s found a niche where his sense of obligation to others generally works for the benefit of the crew.  Still, try as he might, he can’t fix everything.  Shit happens, and there is nothing he can do about it.

 

But sometimes, the universe gives him a break, and lets him go on believing that he can make a difference for just a while longer. 

 

Jim Kirk is alive, and McCoy will count that a victory for today.

 

 ***

 

 **Glossary:**   (With thanks to the various internet sources, the Vulcan Language Dictionary –and a bit of artistic license.)

 

j = Japanese (marital arts)

mt = medical terminology

r = Russian

v = Vulcan

ms = made up shit

 

_A note to readers. I apologize for the abundance of what my beta referes to as "polysyllabical" words in the Secondary section of this piece.  Believe me, my vocabulary is not quite so advanced.  However, since the Secondary portion of this story reflects Spock-Speak, it tend to be a bit abstuse.  I will attempt to alleviate some of the possible confusion by at least providing some translation for a few of the medical terms used._

 

anaphylactic shock – (mt) potentially life-threatening allergic reaction

Ashayam – (v) beloved person

atopy – (mt) genetic tendency to develop allergic diseases

dyspneic – (mt)  air hunger, short of breath

ecchymosed – (mt) bruised

erythematic – (mt) redness of the skin caused by dilatation and congestion of the capillaries

cytotoxic – (mt) affecting the localized area of the wound

hemotoxin – (mt) venom that acts on the heart and cardiovascular system

Kal-ap-ton – (v)  Grief –personification of grief

Kat-cheleb – (v) Destroyer/Blood-drinker – personification of anger

kesa giri – (j) downward diagonal cut

mayoko giri – (j) side-cut

necrotic – (mt) dead tissue

neurotoxic – (mt) acting upon the nervous system and brain

nyet – (r) no

Oigen’rik’korsovaya – (vms) self creation - literally ‘heaven without salvation’

Paki’sbahshi desert – (vms) a desert on Vulcan – literally a mix of “place,” “red,” and “lost”

pomogite mne – (r) help me

prikol’no – (r)  cool, awesome

rai – (v) no

spasibo –(r) thank you

storaya – (v) the first book of the Old Testament

trufemu - (v) one who makes great sacrifices or suffers much or dies in order to further a belief, cause, or principle or religious causes

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

**ATROUS:**

**Black**

 

 

**The box is _black_.**

 

 ***

 

“Well, what is it?”  Kirk is hovering, eyeing the object on the central dais like a little kid contemplating a new toy in the store window.   “What’s it do?”

 

How the hell is he supposed to know? Scotty frowns at the innocuous item and runs an energy reader over it again. Low level output.  Something there all right, but what?  No openings that he can see.  No controls. Just flat, featureless metal.  He makes a face and scratches his head.  “I’ve no got a scooby.”

 

Kirk gives him an aggrieved look. “You’re the engineer.”

 

Scotty makes a quelling gesture.  “Dinnae fash yourself, now.”  His forehead crinkles in thought, then clears as the answer comes to him.  He gestures at the device with a flourish.  “It’s a black box.”

 

Kirk purses his lips in that grumpy expression that means he is less than pleased. Or constipated. One or the other. Maybe both.  “A black box?”

 

“Aye, sir. Definitely a black box.  Or a box, which is black.  Whichever you prefer.”  Scotty tries to sound knowledgeable.

 

Apparently not knowledgeable enough as Kirk keeps nipping.  “Mister Scott, I can see it’s a black box!  What else it is?  What does it do?  What is its function?  Why are there about… a gazillion of them here?” Kirk gestures at the endless rows of black boxes arranged in tidy pigeon holes disappearing into the shadowy distance of the facility.

 

Commander Spock steps closer, inserting himself smoothly into the discussion.  “ ‘A gazillion’ is not an accurate quantitative descriptor, Captain.  It is a fictional exaggeration which is neither accurate nor precise, the use of which suggests a disregard for scientific and mathematical exactitude.”

 

“Oh really,” Kirk shoots back, and Scot can’t quite reign in the smile that twitches his lips. Watching these two take the piss out of each other is more fun than Hunting the Gowk.  Reminds him of his nan and granda - old married couple bickering about everything, but devoted through and through.

 

Kirk folds his arms in challenge.  “Then just how many boxes would _you_ say there are, Commander?”

 

Scott rolls his eyes heavenward.  Surely the lad has learned by now…

 

“Approximately two billion, five hundred ninety-nine million, six hundred fifty-nine thousand, thirty-six,” Spock rattles off in his unflappable monotone. “Based upon my calculations that each row contains one hundred sixty-five thousand, seven hundred fifty boxes, multiplied by the number of vertical columns which increase exponentially as one progresses deeper into the facility, and assuming the facility covers an area of approximately four hundred ninety-four thousand, three hundred fifty-two square meters.”

 

Kirk looks pained, but recovers quickly. Scotty has to give him that.  “Right. Okay. But what are they doing here?”

 

“That I am unable to determine at this time.  I lack the necessary data to make a full analysis of this facility.”

 

Kirk beams, apparently pleased to once again have the upper hand.  “Then that, gentlemen, is what we need to find out.”  

 

He reaches towards the black box, and Scotty reacts without thinking, slapping his hand away. “Are y’ daft, man? Dinnea touch it!”

 

“Hey!” Kirk snatches his hand back, looking wounded.  “Wha…Why not?”

 

“Well,” Scotty points out, feeling a bit put out that his expertise would be questioned. “It might be dangerous.”

 

“For crying out loud, Jim!” Doctor McCoy stalks towards them from where he’s been examining a set of translucent, tubular chambers aligned along the nearest curved wall of the dome.  “What have we told you about touching everything?  What is it with you?  It’s like a damn compulsion or something!”

 

Kirk looks to Scott for support.  “But you said you didn’t know what it does.”

 

Scott likes Kirk, he really does, but sometimes the lad can be a bit of a numpty. “Nae, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean it canna nip ye in the arse.”

 

“You see?” McCoy crows, vindicated, waving his arm around as though indicating the universe in general.   “Like the man said…” he leans in, getting up in Kirk’s face, “… _dangerous_.”

 

Kirk gives McCoy an annoyed scowl and addresses Scotty.  “You mean they could be weapons?  Like bombs?”

 

“Unlikely,” Spock speculates, his tricorder whirring.  “The energy signature suggests a less volatile function.” His head cocks, thoughtfully.  “More likely storage devices of some kind.”

 

“Aye, he’s dead right about that,” Scotty confirms, consulting his own readings once more. “The boxes contain low level energy fields, but nothing like you’d see with energetic plasma.”  As he adjusts the reader, he notes a strange shiver and jump in the energy output aura.  He’s seen it before, when they first arrived on the planet.  “It’s back, Mister Spock!  That flux-pattern.  The one I told ye about.”  He holds out his reader to the Vulcan and taps on the screen.  “There!  You see?”

 

Spock frowns, and glances down at his tricorder screen.  “Indeed.  That could be significant.”

 

“What?” Kirk is suddenly peering over their shoulders.  “What could be significant?”

 

“There’s something else here.  Some power source, and it has an energy signature that’s totally dodgy.” Scotty shakes his head and whistles low. “It’s nae something I’ve seen before.”

 

Spock nods thoughtfully.  “It appears to be emanating from this location.”

 

Kirk watches the strange spiked activity on the energy reader with interest.  “You think that… that energy output… whatever it is… you think that is what you picked up on the ship?”

 

“Most likely,” Spock confirms.  “The other devices do not generate sufficient power to have created electromagnetic fluctuations in the Tarrill grid.”

 

Kirk gazes around, and Scott can tell from his narrowed eyes and guarded movements, that he has shifted to alert status.  “Then what did?

 

***

 

They’d detected signs of long abandoned settlements on some of the outer moons of the nearby solar system, but the small planetoid itself likely would not have garnered even a passing glance had Scotty not picked up on some unusual fluctuations in the Tarrill grid.  Nothing major – hardly noteworthy actually - but Scotty clearly remembered the last time he’d dismissed something as “hardly noteworthy.”  It had taken weeks of practically living in the Jefferies tubes to get the nano-infestation out of the wiring. Determined that a similar occurrence was _so_ not happening again on his watch, Scotty contacted the bridge, and Commander Spock confirmed his findings that there was indeed something, “awfy big puttin’ out a butt-load of power down there, Cap’n,” though Spock didn’t exactly put it in those words during the briefing.

 

So they beamed down, because descriptions like “awfy big” and “a butt-load of power” apparently got Spock and his highly efficient science department all bammed up.

 

And the landing party - consisting of Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, Doctor McCoy, two security guards, Scott himself, and a petite, redheaded science tech named Tessie O’Sullivan that Scott would like to get to know better -  found themselves in the center of what appeared to be a city, or what was left of a city.  There was a general air of neglect about the place. Not a soul in sight – just lots of multi-story structures falling into disrepair.  The sky was a dull, leaden grey, and the ground not much more appealing.  There was little plant life, and what did grow appeared stunted and spindly.  Ahead of them, a single structure stood out amongst the others, an immense dome rising above the cityscape, glowing from within like a giant, pearlescent bubble; it was the only source of power they could detect on their instruments.

 

“There,” Kirk said, indicating the dome.  “We check it out.”

They trooped in that direction, Kirk jogging ahead to peer into darkened doorways while the security team scuttled after him in a doomed effort to keep him contained. Spock and O’Sullivan with their noses glued to their tricorder screens. Scott with his energy reader firmly in hand, and McCoy grousing about anything and everything that came to mind.  

 

The good Doctor is one of the little gems that keeps life aboard the _Enterprise_ a daily treat for Scott.  He’s a bit of a crabbit, hates transporters, has little interest in exploring new worlds, is aviophobic, acrophobic, a touch xenophobic and possibly misanthropic, and yet he horns in on landing parties on a regular basis.  If Kirk goes, he goes.  It’s sweet really, and a bit daft, in Scott’s opinion, but the man certainly makes what could be a dull away mission much more colorful.

 

O’Sullivan and Spock had apparently found something that twisted their panties in a bunch.  They leaned over their tricorders blethering excitedly – well, Lieutenant O’Sullivan was blethering in her delightful brogue.  Spock was just being Spock.  McCoy wandered over to join their little clump of blue uniforms and they stood around chattering in science speak like a bevy of Blue Tits. 

 

“Captain,” Spock finally intoned, trotting after Kirk.  “We are reading high concentrations of diversified environmental toxins in the air and soil of this planet.  This level of environmental contamination would render this planet inhospitable to most life as we know it.”

 

Kirk glanced around at the low, heavy sky and dreary landscape.  “Are we in any danger?”

 

“No, Jim,” McCoy speculated.  “Not for the short duration of an exploratory mission.  But we’ll have to go through a good decon when we get aboard, and if we plan on staying any longer that a few hours, we should probably get suited up in EVs.”

 

Kirk shook his head.  “No, just a short look around right now.  Depending upon what we find, we might come back with a more specialized team, but for now we just take a quick peek.”

 

Scott was listening, but his attention was on the energy reader in his hand.  He was getting some strange blip in the output aura, a vacillating pattern unlike anything he’d seen before.  He tapped on the ER screen to make sure it wasn’t malfunctioning somehow.  The strange oscillations remained. Something was putting out an arse-load of power.  “Well, I’ll be jiggered.  Mister Spock,” he observed, “I’m pickin’ up some strange energy readings.”  He peered at the reader, then nodded to indicate the dome ahead.  “They appear to be coming from that pretty bauble.”

 

Spock stepped closer, and held out a hand.  “May I?”

 

Scotty handed over the ER and watched while Spock consulted the output data.  His head cocked curiously - like a bird, thought Scott - like a super intelligent, sharp-eyed bird with pointed ears.  “I do not detect any readings other than the low level emanations we have been tracking since our arrival, Mister Scott.”

 

Scotty blinked.  “Aye?  Tha’ canna be right.”  He retrieved the ER and studied the screen, but Spock was correct.  There was no trace of the flux-pattern that had caught his interest.  “I dinnae understand.  It was here a moment ago.  I’d swear it on me granda’s grave, I would.”

 

Kirk squinted at Spock and chewed a bit on his lower lip.  “O’Sullivan, did you pick up anything?”

 

With an apologetic glance at Scotty, she shook her head. Her copper curls bobbed in agitation.  “No sir.  I’m sorry.  I was monitoring the environmental data.”

 

“Bones?”

 

“Same here, Jim.  I was busy computing toxin levels.”

 

“And you did not see anything, Spock?”

 

“Negative.”  Spock twiddled with the controls on his own tricorder, looking perturbed, or at least as perturbed as a Vulcan could look.  “I was also engaged in analyzing the ecological datastream.  It is unfortunate I cannot confirm Mister Scott’s findings.”  He glanced at Scott with unfathomable dark eyes.  “However, I do not doubt the veracity of his claims. He has proven reliable, if somewhat unconventional, in his position as Chief Engineer.”

 

Bless Mister Spock. That was as close to a Vulcan compliment as one was likely to get, and Scotty was well chuffed.  The Vulcan would have made a damn fine engineer.  Too bad he was wasted in science and command.

 

“Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”  Kirk glanced towards the dome.  “You said it came from there?”

 

“It looked like it, yes sir.”

 

Kirk grinned, easily.  “Well, since that’s where we’re headed anyway, guess we can kill two birds with one stone!”

 

Spock glanced speculatively at the captain.  “Why would we wish to extirpate avian life forms?”

 

Kirk just laughed and slapped the Vulcan on the back as they headed towards the dome.

 

McCoy, for his part, muttered, “I wish you wouldn’t use idioms like that.  Couldn’t you pick something…? I don’t know… a little less violent?”

 

***

 

Scotty waves his portable x-ray generator over the black device and swears.  Nothing.  It sits there, on the central pedestal, in inscrutable silence, and mocks him.  “Maybe if we run it through the onboard radiograph scan we can get a better idea of the internal structure.  I’m getting nothing on this boggin piece of space garbage.” He bangs on the side of his scanner in disgust. 

 

“Perhaps the metal casing is impervious to our instrumentation,” speculates Spock, crouching down to eye level with the box.  “Or it could have a form of energy shielding with which we are unfamiliar.”  He fiddles with the controls on his tricorder.  He does that a lot, and Scotty has a brief, uncharitable thought that maybe the Vulcan isn’t actually doing anything productive, but simply plays with the dials in order to look industrious.

 

Sighing, Scott scratches the top of his head in hopes of stimulating thought. “It’s a bawbuster, all right. I’d like to get it aboard and see what the lads and lassies can make of it.”

 

Spock glances towards Kirk, McCoy, and O’Sullivan. The three are busy inspecting the arrangement of large, cylindrical cubicles under the watchful eye of security.  “The captain is uncertain of the wisdom of beaming this object aboard without first ascertaining its function.”

 

“He’s still thinkin’ it might go…  BOOM?”  Scott proclaims with anomalous cheer, throwing his arms out to illustrate an explosion.

 

This earns him a bland look from the Vulcan.  “If by that fatuous spectacle, you mean to suggest he has concerns that the object may pose a risk to the _Enterprise_ , then yes.”

 

Scotty grins, reassuringly. “Ah, he needn’t worry.  We’ll take bonny good care of it, just like a wee bairn in a cradle.”

 

Spock straightens, his brows drawing together just a touch in the center.  “I believe that you made similar assurances concerning the spherical object we located on Tau-Omikron. The one which, as I recall, exploded while being transported, resulting in damages which…”

 

“All right! All right!” Scotty interrupts, throwing up his hands in surrender. “Wheesht, will ye!  That was an unfortunate accident.”

 

“And the recent incident with the nano-tech?”

 

“Not strictly my fault.  T’was the cap’n who was all geed up about installing that new modification.”

 

“The one which I believe you encouraged him to procure through a distributor of somewhat questionable credentials and ethics?”

 

“Well now, Mister Spock,” Scotty informs the Vulcan sagaciously, “ye canna just order something like that out of a catalog.”

 

The commander’s lips flatten in disapproval.  “With good reason, Mister Scott.”

 

Scott doesn’t have an answer for that.  Besides, experience has established that arguing with a Vulcan is pointless. Instead, he kneels down to examine the base of the pedestal, hoping to find someway to gain access to the box from there. 

 

He’s in the middle of trying to slip the tip of his redi-tool into a near invisible seam in the apparatus, when his energy reader beeps at him.  He’s got it programmed to notify him if the unusual energy fluctuations should return, as they have yet to identify the source.  “Mister Spock!  Tha’ energy pulse!  It’s back!”  He glances at the screen and sees the telltale jiggling of the output aura.  This time is seems even more pronounced than before.  “Whatever it is, it’s go’n like the clappers. My reader’s off the scale!”

 

“Mister Scott.  I suggest you take a look at this.” There is just a hint of heightened inflection in Spock’s tone, but seeing as he is Vulcan, that slight inflection is enough to send Scotty scrambling to his feet.

 

The black box is no longer sitting in inscrutable silence.  It is beginning to glow with a strange inner light.  The once opaque flat faces have turned nebulous, and are swirling with a spectrum of color. It is both alarming and beautiful.

 

Scott gawps at the changes.  “Well now, that’s fan-dabby-dozy.  Do you suppose that’s the source of the energy oscillations?”

 

“Possibly.  Although my tricorder is reading a secondary source…”

 

A sudden babble of raised voices attracts their attention, and they turn as one to see McCoy throw himself at the translucent walls of one of the tubular chambers.  “Jim!”

 

One of the cylindrical cells is now sealed shut, and is also flickering with a rainbow of colors.  Scotty can barely see the indistinct outline of someone dressed in command gold inside the capsule with their hands pressed up against the walls.  “Oh shite,” he notes as Spock takes off across the vast space.

 

Tossing his diagnostic tools back in his kit, Scotty pelts after the Vulcan.

 

They arrive to find McCoy and security officer Jackson desperately trying to locate an opening to the chamber. Beyond the semi-opaque walls, Scotty can see Kirk banging ineffectively against the barrier. He is also shouting, but his voice sounds far away and muffled, his words swallowed. The patterns of color in the exterior appear to be shifting at an increasing speed, and there is an accompanying whine that is rising in pitch proportionately.

 

Spock begins running his fingers over the surface of the cell, seeking entrance. Scotty joins him, digging a sonar compass out of his kit, and playing it over the shell of the cubical.  He reaches out to brace himself against the barrier, and draws back in surprise. The surface feels strange; it is slick and oily but leaves no residue on his skin. The wall gives slightly under his touch, like a thick membrane rather than a solid surface.  He can detect no signs of the previous opening on his compass. 

 

“He entered the chamber?”  Spock directs the question at Doctor McCoy.

 

“Of course he entered the chamber!” McCoy snarls, his own concern expressing itself as acrimony.  “Jesus H. Christ! What do you think?  We threw him in there?”

 

“Sirs?”  The burly, mahogany skinned Jackson is holding up his phaser.  His broad, round face is grave.  “Should I try burning through?”

 

“Negative, Lieutenant,” Spock replies.  “We do not know what affect that may have upon the chamber or the captain.”

 

Tessie O’Sullivan and the second security officer, Ensign Tevyal, an Andorian female, are busy trying to operate an instrument panel set in a wall along side the series of tubes.

 

“Mister Scott,” O’Sullivan calls, her brown eyes wide with excitement as she waves the engineer to her side.  “We think this controls the chambers, but we can’t quite figure it out.” 

 

Scott scurries to join them, figuring his aptitude is better fitted to fiddling with the console anyway.  They have the front of the panel torn open, the circuitry exposed.  The wiring does not look too foreign, although it is constructed of some unfamiliar materials.  Schematics are flashing on the flat screen above the control board.  He can’t make heads or tails of the script flowing across the screen – looks like worms doing a jig - but he can follow the diagrams fairly well.  The display indicates that one of the chambers and one of the black boxes are engaged in some kind of wireless data transfer. At least that is what he _thinks_ it shows. 

 

The high frequency whistle is reaching a pitch which is painful to the ear, and Scott sees Spock wince and duck his head slightly.  He recalls the superior Vulcan hearing with sympathy.  The exterior of the capsule is now flashing so fast it is difficult to discern individual colors; it is becoming a blur of milky white. 

 

Something is happening inside the chamber, and it doesn’t look favorable for the captain.  Kirk is no longer shouting or struggling to get out.  Instead, he has slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor of the booth, and curling in on himself.  McCoy is consulting the readings on his tricorder in alarm.  “Spock!  We’ve got to get him out of there!  That thing is killing him!”

 

Spock abandons his efforts to locate an opening, and slams his shoulder into the translucent barrier in hopes of cracking it open.  The wall gives slightly, then bounces back, throwing him clear. He lands lightly on his feet. “Doctor,” he commands, voice somewhat harsh with the strain of keeping his emotions in check.  “A scalpel, please.”

 

Scotty fingers fly over the alien instrumentation as he watches the sequence of graphics skitter across the screen. An uneasy feeling begins building in his stomach. 

 

Oh, they are bollocksed for sure.

 

Over his shoulder, O’Sullivan lets out a soft gasp and Ensign Tevyal makes a soft growling sound in her throat, muttering something harsh in Andorian. Apparently, they too have drawn the same conclusion from the flashing set of schematics.  Scott fiddles frantically with the controls, figuring they really have very little to loose at this point.  “Mister Spock,” he calls, voice rising in trepidation.  “You best get the cap’n out’ta there right now!”

 

Spock has taken a scalpel from McCoy and plunged the sharp point into the exterior membrane of the booth, slashing downward in a swift stroke. The shell parts momentarily in the wake of the blade, but reseals almost immediately, leaving no trace of the cut.  His attempt to open a small hole and insert his fingers meets with an equal lack of success.

 

Kirk is now lying motionless on the floor of the capsule.  Individual colors are no longer visible in the walls.  The booth glows with bright, pulsing, white lighting.

 

Scotty almost hears the ping of a timer go off in his head.  ‘ _Time’s up!’_ it seems to gloat.

 

“Spock!” McCoy shouts, genuine fear in his voice.

 

Tevyal pulls her phaser, shoving O’Sullivan and Scott aside.  She aims at the control panel and shoots a despairing glance at Mister Scott. 

 

“Do it, lass!” he shouts, praying to any gods that might exist that he’s right about this.

 

Tevyal fingers the trigger and the distinctive trill of phaser fire cuts through the chaos of the moment.  Sparks fly from the console and the smell of ozone and burned circuitry is strong.

 

The piercing whine stutters and dies.  The light of the cell flickers and goes out, leaving the interior dim.

 

For a moment, there is stunned silence; then Spock turns to them, expression demanding.  Ensign Tevyal, to her credit, stands firm in the face of his stern authority, though her blue skin blanches a shade paler, and her antennae stiffen with tension.  “Ssssir.  I felt the captain’sssss life was in eminent danger. I took actionsss I deemed necessary.”

 

Scott is perhaps no less intimidated by the austere Vulcan, but he does have rank on his side.  “She was following my orders, Commander.”  He nods towards the now quiescent chamber.  “That thing was executing a procedural program with a set algorithm.  The final step was incineration. The cap’n would’a taken the one way transport for sure!”

 

That sends a Vulcan eyebrow flying. 

 

“He’s right, sir,” pipes up O’Sullivan, looking flustered as she tries to pat down her wayward curls.  “The data indicated a sequential program terminating in a flash-thermal treatment command. We didn’t have time to edit the source code.”

 

Anything further they might say in their behalf is interrupted by a wet peeling sound as the capsule wall suddenly melts away, leaving a wide opening.

 

“Spock!” McCoy is scrambling to climb through the aperture almost as soon as it appears. He progress is halted by Jackson, who blocks the orifice with his bulk, and hold’s McCoy back with a firm hand to his chest.  “Sorry, Doc.  Let me check it out first.”  He turns and ducks through the opening, phaser at the ready.

 

McCoy swears and fidgets.  “I’m a doctor, for God’s sake.  How am I supposed to help if you won’t let me see the patient!  The captain is hurt and I’m his CMO. Starfleet’s invested a lot in training me, so you might want to let me do my damn job!”  His tone is shifting from annoyed to outright incensed, and Scotty figures he is working himself up to a truly epic kerfluffle when a call from Jackson cuts him short. 

 

“It’s okay, Doc. Come on in.”

 

“It’s about time!” McCoy grouses, pushing past Jackson with a less than sincere, “Much obliged.”

 

Though his presence wasn’t requested, Commander Spock is directly on the doctor’s heels. 

 

Nonplussed, Scotty exchanges awkward looks with Tevyal and O’Sullivan as they listen to the muffled conversation drifting from inside the chamber.

 

“…Doctor…  the captain’s condition…?”

 

“…stable…but I don’t…”

 

“…not optimal…”

 

“…these readings… ”

 

“…do you require… notify ship?”

 

“… what in creation…?”

 

Then finally, McCoy’s voice, loud and clear, “Oh hell, I can’t see a thing in here!  Spock!  Jackson!  Help me get him into the light.”

 

There is the sound of shuffling, and Jackson emerges followed by Spock, with Kirk strung limply between them in a fore-and-aft carry.  Medical tricorder whirring, McCoy flutters around them like a frustrated mother hen.  “Okay.  Ease him down.  Gently now.”

 

Spock and Jackson lower Kirk to the floor, and Spock takes a position at his head, hands on Kirk’s shoulders.

 

As far as Scott can see, there is no sign of injury, but Kirk is lookin’ mighty peely-wally in his opinion.  Ghastly pale, mouth slack, blue eyes open and glassy, he stares sightlessly upward; he appears lifeless.

 

O’Sullivan inhales sharply, and shoves a knuckle into her mouth, perhaps to keep from whimpering.  Tevyal mutters again in her native Andorian, and although Scott can’t understand a word, judging by the bitter tone he’s pretty sure he’d agree with the sentiment.

 

“Doctor. Something is wrong.” Spock’s face is grim, and Scott can clearly hear the strain behind his words.  If he is being that obvious, the Vulcan must truly be unsettled. “The captain has a highly dynamic mind.  At this proximity I should be able to discern his… mental signature.”  The long fingers tighten on Kirk’s shoulders. “I detect… nothing.” 

 

McCoy crouches at Kirk’s side, and his expression does little to alleviate Scotty’s anxiety. “I don’t know.  It’s not a coma. I’m not sure what it is.” He checks the readings on his reader tube. “His brain stem functions are intact. Respiration, heart rate, blood pressure all within normal range, but I am not detecting any electrical activity in the limbic system or neocortex.” He glances at the screen of his tricorder and shakes his head in puzzlement.  “His BCP is nearly flat! That makes no sense.”  He taps the reader tube against his palm absently, forehead furrowed in thought.  “Maybe a cortical stimulator…” He tapers off, chewing on his lower lip.

 

“A toxin of some type?” Spock inquires. The Vulcan has taken Kirk’s head between his hands, cradling it gently. Kirk’s blank blue eyes are giving Scotty the creeps.  Unnatural, is what it is.

 

McCoy signs and double checks the tube reader again.  “No. At least nothing I can detect.”

 

Scotty decides to ante up.  It can’t hurt.  “When the lasses and I were tinkering with the chamber console, it was displaying a series of program graphics.” He waves a hand towards the now dead cubical.  “It seemed like there was some type of data transfer going on, between this here chamber and the wee box over there.” He points across the vast space towards the pedestal. 

 

“Data transfer?”  McCoy is frowning at him “What are you talking about?  What data transfer?”

 

Scott shrugs.  “I don’t rightly ken, but that’s what it looked like, all right.”

 

Spock cocks his head at O’Sullivan.  “Do you concur?”

 

She startles, then smoothes her skirt with one hand.  “Yes, sir.  That certainly appeared to be what was indicated by the diagrams.”

 

“And you could not ascertain the nature of the transfer?”

 

She shakes her head, ginger curls bouncing.  “Negative. Perhaps some form of energy.  Without being able to transliterate the symbols, I am unable to draw an authoritative conclusion.”

 

Did all scientists expound like that, Scotty wonders, or is the _Enterprise_ science division particularly subject to the disciplined influence of its Vulcan head of department?

 

Lips pressing together in consideration, Spock turns back to study the captain for a moment, then addresses McCoy.  “If you are certain the captain’s vital are stable, I have a hypothesis I would like to pursue before beaming aboard.”

 

McCoy raises a skeptical eyebrow.  “A hypothesis?  What kind of hypothesis?”

 

“If I am in error, then the hypothesis is of no consequence, and it would be profitless for me to explain.  However, if I am correct, then I may be able to offer insight into the captain’s condition.”

 

McCoy does not look pleased.  “How long will it take?  I want to get him back to sickbay as soon as possible.”

 

Spock bends forward, kneeling protectively over Kirk. “It should only take a few minutes, Doctor.  If at any point the captain’s condition begins to decline, then certainly I will cease my activities and relinquish him to your care.”

 

The tip of McCoy’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lips.  “Just what are you planning?”

 

“The _kash-nohv_.  A mindmeld, Doctor. I propose to create a telepathic link between our minds in order to ascertain the extent of the damage the captain has suffered and perhaps identify a cause.”

 

A mindmeld?  Scotty’s heard about such things.  Some kind of Vulcan telepathic mysticism.  Scotty exchanges glances with the rest of the landing party gathered in a loose circle around the prone figure of their captain.  Like him, they are deeply engrossed in the ongoing conversation between the CMO and First Officer. 

 

The doctor’s hand scanner drones as he runs it once more over Kirk’s body.   He eyes the readings critically then clenches the device in his fist.  “Is there a risk?”

 

Spock lays one hand gently on the crown of Kirk’s head.  “There is always a risk, as a mind-touch can result in physical or psychological injury. The necessary pressure changes in the brain could prove debilitating.  Our minds may become inexorable linked and either one of us could lose our sense of personal identity.  Improperly executed, a mind-meld can lead to insanity, even death.”

 

McCoy is beginning to look a bit ill.

 

Spock glances at the doctor, head tilted, and Scotty swears he sees a smirk tug at those lips.  “I am, however, rated highly proficient in the use of melding techniques. My teachers considered me… exceptionally gifted.”

 

“Well, isn’t that special.” McCoy grouses, and some of the tension seems to melt from his frame as he regains the familiar territory of bickering with the commander. He gestures in permission.  “Go ahead and do whatever you need to do.  I reckon we can wait a few minutes, but make it quick.”  As the Vulcan leans over Kirk, McCoy reaches out and touches him softly on the arm.  Spock freezes. “Make no mistake, Spock.  The second Jim’s vitals start doing anything unusual, I’m pulling you out of there, if I have to do it by your pointy ears.”

 

The two exchange a knowing glance.  “Understood.” 

 

For a moment, Scotty envies them this easy percipience. It’s not affection exactly. But it is something… something special, and watching the three of them interact, Kirk, Spock and McCoy, is like being privilege to some secret club. It makes him exceedingly grateful to be aboard _Enterprise_ and serving with these men.

 

Spock’s fingers slide into position against Jim’s temple.

 

His eyes flutter shut.

 

And they wait.

 

 ***

 

 

**CINERIOUS:**

**Grey**

 

 

Kirk’s mind is a tabula rasa of _grey_ nihility.

 

 ***

 

Spock prepares himself for the _kash-nohv,_ his fingers pressing lightly against Kirk’s clammy skin.  He draws in a deep breath, then slowly exhales, allowing himself to sink into the meld.  He takes a moment to adjust to the unfamiliar mental landscape, then cautiously reaches out. He slides through layers of nebulous static, seeking the mental voice that is James Kirk. 

 

He finds nothing.

 

Unacceptable.  There must be something.  Some trace.  How could a mind so vibrant, so charismatic, simply… vanish?

 

Spock plummets deeper, casting about - growing desperate - sending his mind questing in a thousand different directions…

 

But there is nothing. 

 

Just a grey void of aching emptiness. 

 

Jim Kirk, everything that made him who he was, that unique, compelling personality, is gone, swallowed up in a desolate landscape of non-existence.  Spock reels with the loss of something he has only just discovered he wants. 

 

He finds himself abruptly tumbling back into his own mind, dazed and scattered. He gasps and draws a series of quick ragged breaths. His vision is blurred by unshed tears.  Vulcans do not have the physiologic ability to produce tears,  but he is not pure Vulcan.

 

“Spock,” McCoy’s growl is soft in his ear.  There is pressure against his deltoid muscle, a cautious shake. He blinks and turns to find the doctor gazing at him, eyes filled with concern.  The pressure is McCoy’s hand pressing upon his shoulder. The fingers tighten and squeeze.  “Are you all right?”  Then, seeming to notice his grip upon Spock’s arm, McCoy withdraws, disconcerted.  “You seemed… um… “He waves a hand in a vague gesture and trails into silence. 

 

Spock considers the appropriate response.  He chooses veracity.  “No, Doctor.  I am not ‘all right.’ I am, however, functional.” 

 

“What happened?  Did you learn anything? How’s Jim?”

 

Spock glances down at the vacant eyes of James Kirk. His fingers ghost lightly over the high forehead.  “I learned that he…”  He pauses.  His voice is a rasp.  Too rough.  Too emotional.  He swallows heavily and tries again.  “He is gone, Doctor.  There is no mind. All that he was is lost to us.”

 

The shock in McCoy’s muddy brown eyes reflects his own horror.

 

 

When he had heard McCoy’s shout of alarm as the chamber initially closed upon Jim Kirk, Spock’s first thought had been that he should have foreseen said event.

 

_“What have we told you about touching everything?  What is it with you?  It’s like a damn compulsion or something!”_

 

Indeed. 

 

Foreseen, and taken preventative measures.

 

With ripples of irritation and apprehension disturbing his usual placidity, Spock had hurried to assist. Cognizant of the fact that Jim Kirk was highly intelligent for a Human, Spock, once again, had reassured himself that, eventually, the captain would learn to temper his impulsive nature and innate curiosity. 

 

If he survived long enough to do so.

 

Gazing down at Jim Kirk’s still form, Spock struggles to assimilate the knowledge that the captain’s continued survival may no longer be an issue.

 

He hears McCoy’s yelp of protest over his dire pronouncement of Kirk’s condition, the rising clamor of other voices, demands for answers, sharp questions.  All of it gibberish. Only Jim’s eyes - endless and forsaken blue - hold meaning.

 

He hadn’t anticipated this…

 

this…

 

feeling? 

 

He’d established the meld with definitive goals in mind, to test his hypothesis and to gather empirical data concerning the captain’s condition. 

 

Or so he had thought. 

 

However, recent events have forced Spock to admit that he is very good at hiding, even from himself. His ingrained sense of integrity compels him to examine his motives more deeply.  Had there not also been a sense of longing… of desire?  An expectancy?  There is no doubt that he wishes to discover the extent of the damage to James Kirk’s mind, but was that his only motivation?

 

Ever since his mysterious other self had spoken cryptically of “a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet imagine,” he has been troubled. 

 

Vulcans do not have “friendships” as Humans define the term.  They have acquaintances.  Colleagues. Collaborators. Those with whom they share a common interest or goal.  But outside of familial relationships, connections formed purely for interpersonal, social, and emotional reasons are… illogical.  To hear his elder self speak so brazenly of something so improbable had been… disturbing. 

 

And yet…

 

intriguing.

 

It had been his growing emotive attachment to Nyota Uhura which had first prompted him to give further consideration to the Human ideology of friendship, and to admit that the concept had merit.

 

Prior to her influence, he had not considered that he could establish such bonds outside of family.  It had been a revelation – an awakening of sorts - which impelled him to rethink many of his prior relationships.  Previously, he had merely classified them as, “professional acquaintances.”  Was that all they had been?  Had his regard for Admiral Pike perhaps been _more_ than professional respect? For the first time, Spock had given careful consideration to the possibility that he was capable of friendship.

 

His relationship and subsequent sexual congress with Nyota had been deeply satisfying, but like a Vulcan child who gets a first taste of _pu’lah_ , he discovered he wanted more.  Something had shifted deep within his psyche, and he became plagued with a sense of something… missing - a need for something he could not yet formalize.

 

He wanted…

 

And came to know that _what_ he wanted was that “friendship” his elder self had dangled like a promise. 

 

And so he allowed himself to be open to the possibility.  He joined Jim Kirk for meals in the mess hall. He accepted offers to play chess. The two of them set up a sparring schedule, and he taught the captain Vulcan hand-to-hand techniques in exchange for lessons in how to “fight dirty.”  Occasionally, he even agreed to accompany the captain on shore leave, partaking in a variety of interesting, if somewhat illogical and potentially dangerous, distractions. 

 

He had studied James Tiberius Kirk thoroughly, researching him with the same exactness he would afford a unique specimen in a laboratory. Slowly he had gathered and consolidated information about the man, expanding his knowledge base.  However, true understanding continued to elude him. In defiance of statistical inference, Kirk remained unpredictable.  Despite observable, empirical, and measurable evidence, he defied mastery.  Humans were complex, and James Kirk was the Riemann Hypothesis of Humans.

 

Still Spock persisted, because as he spent more time aboard the _Enterprise_ , he abandoned his initial objective of deciphering James Kirk in favor of the far more fascinating experience of simply _learning_ about James Kirk. 

 

And found that while he had been intently busy trying to dissect the concept of “friendship,” he had begun to live it.  Somewhere along the journey, Jim Kirk had become his friend.

 

Yet, he remained restless and unsatisfied.

 

It wasn’t till he had reached out for Jim Kirk through the meld that he had truly understood.  What he hungered for ran deeper than the Human concept of friendship.  What he craved was… _t’hy’la_ \- a Vulcan concept dating back to ancient times.  A lifelong companion.   A chosen one.  A cherished soulmate.  He had yearned to bask in the glow of the shining, spirited energy that was James T. Kirk - to surround and embrace his soul…

 

But there had been nothing to embrace.

 

Bereft, Spock brushes strands of russet hair off Kirk’s forehead and reflects on the nature of a universe that would steal away something he had only just discovered was so precious to him.  

 

Recalling a planet torn apart by the tidal forces of a blossoming black hole, and his mother’s final scream, he concludes that perhaps the universe, this one at least, is inherently cruel.

 

“Spock!” He can no longer dismiss the outside intrusion.  McCoy is gripping him by the upper arms.  “We’ve got to get him aboard!”

 

Spock lifts his eyes to McCoy, and whatever is reflected in them causes the doctor to draw back, shaken.  “I mean, there’s nothing else we can do for him here.  Is there?”

 

Spock blinks, his mind slipping out of stasis.  Is there something they can do?  His hypothesis has yet to be fully tested.

 

“Perhaps, Doctor, there is.” With one last tender touch to Kirk’s shoulder he rises.  “I can no longer detect the captain’s mental presence.  I believe his mind has been stripped. It longer resides within him.”

 

“You’re saying his personality is just… wiped clean?” 

 

“More than his personality, Doctor.” Spock moves to the damaged control console and tugs at some of the burned wiring.  “A personality is imprinted upon a functioning mind.  Essentially, the captain has no mind.”

 

McCoy throws up his arms in frustration. “How the hell am I supposed to fix something like that?”

 

“You said his mind no longer resides within his body,” Lieutenant O’Sullivan observes in her soft lilt.  “Then where did it go, Mister Spock?”

 

Spock glances across the open area to where the black box still sits atop the pedestal.

 

Where indeed? 

 

“Mister Scott.” Spock abandons the scorched control panel, wiping his hands together in an attempt to remove some of the carbon blackening his fingers.  “I require access to this facility’s mainframe. Since Ensign Tevyal has rendered this particular access portal inoperative, perhaps you could locate and activate an alternate port of entry?”

 

Scott bobs his head eagerly, and starts eyeing the vast complex.  “Aye. I’ll get right on it, Commander.”

 

McCoy is busy monitoring the captain, but it doesn’t stop him from scowling at Spock.  “Just what are you planning?”

 

“I am gathering data, Doctor.”  He watches McCoy run his medical scanner over Jim’s prone form.  “What is the captain’s condition? Has it deteriorated?”

 

McCoy shakes his head, expression crestfallen.  “No.  Still the same.  I can’t do any more for him here.  I’d like to transport him to Sickbay.  Do a more thorough brain mapping. Try cortical stimulation.  We’ve got the latest in medical technology on board, surely something will help.”

 

“That is unlikely,” Spock offers in an analytical tone, then hesitates when he sees the emotional reaction his words have had upon McCoy and the others. Vulcans value directness and clarity of concepts when exchanging information.  Humans, he is learning, do not always appreciate such candor.   “I am…  sorry…” he offers, seeking to bridge the miscommunication with a gesture he likely would not have perceived as advantageous prior to his recent revelation. “I have no doubt that you will employ your considerable medical expertise to the situation. However, I am not certain this can be classified as a medical matter.”

 

“Not a medical matter?” McCoy sputters. “Then what the hell would you call it, Spock?”

 

“That I have yet to fully ascertain.  Thus, I must ask… an indulgence of you.”

 

The doctor is watching him with a speculative expression.  “And what is that?”

 

“Allow the captain to remain on the planet until I am able to fully conclude my inquiries. It should not take long.  If I am correct in my assumptions about the function of this facility, it will make assisting the captain far easier if his physical body is present.”

 

“I thought you said there was nothing we could do. That his mind is gone.”

 

“His mind _is_ gone, Doctor.  That does not necessarily mean we are without recourse.”

 

Something very like hope lights McCoy’s eyes.  “You have an idea!”

 

“I have…” Spock pauses, considering his phrasing, “... a conjecture.”

 

“Mister Spock!” O’Sullivan interrupts from some distance away.  “We found what we believe is an access terminal.  Mister Scott is powering it up now.”

 

Spock acknowledges her with a nod, then turns to McCoy.  “Doctor?”

 

McCoy waves a hand dismissively.  “Go ahead. Do whatever it is you need to do.  Just find a way to help Jim.”

 

“That is my intention.”

 

Leaving McCoy and the captain under Jackson’s close supervision, Spock hurries across the open floor towards the remaining members of their party. They are gathered in a huddle around a curious piece of equipment that resembles a large, taupe colored toadstool. 

 

As he jogs towards them, Spock adjusts the imaging function on his tricorder to record mode.  If he is able to access the information he is seeking, he will want a visual record - _if_ being the operative word.  _If_ he manages to establish a connection to the facility’s mainframe. _If_ he is able to locate the relevant information.  _If_ he can decipher the text and related graphics.  _If_ the data, in fact, confirms his hypothesis.  And finally, _if_ any of it is at all helpful to Jim. 

 

The word, _if_ , by definition is conditional, and denotes a level of uncertainly Spock finds disconcerting. However, Spock reminds himself firmly, _if_ also implies the potential for success, and it is that aspect he will focus upon in his efforts to save the captain.

 

 

 ***

 

**ARGENT:**

**White**

 

 

 _White_ is the achromatic color of maximum lightness; it is the presence of the complete color spectrum.

 

 ***

 

Jim didn’t realize how much he enjoyed color, until it was gone.  Well, not gone precisely – he knows enough about spectroscopy and the visible light spectrum to realize that white is not exactly an absence of color, but rather the sum of _all_ colors.  So he is, in actuality, enveloped by color.  But since his eyes can only perceive his surroundings as achromatically neutral, he doesn’t find it particularly appealing.

 

In fact, within this current reality, the only thing that has any color, other than white, is himself. His skin, his body, his uniform, all appear normal, if a bit washed out. 

 

But everything else is…

 

white.

 

He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t even know where he isn’t.  There really isn’t much he knows at all concerning his present situation.  He remembers entering one of those odd tubular chambers on the planet with some vague intention of learning more about the mysterious place they were exploring.  Then the door had disappeared and there had been lots of sound and lights and the alarming sensation of being taken apart molecule by molecule… 

 

And then he was here…

 

Wherever _here_ was.

 

He assumes the chamber had been some sort of transportation device, but he doesn’t have a clue to where he’s been teleported. It appears to be –

 

nowhere.

 

There is no up or down. Nothing to provide any spatial orientation. No sensation of movement. No sense of distance. Just blank whiteness everywhere.  He tried walking, but gave up since he has no idea if he was actually making any progress.  He can feel nothing under his feet, nothing in front of him or behind or above. Nothing to push against. Sitting down.  Standing up. It’s all the same. He might well be floating in zero-g or in free fall. It is disorienting. 

 

It occurs to him that maybe he’s stuck in transition between one place and another, like poor Admiral Archer’s dog.  It is not a comforting thought.

 

Nor does he have any idea of how long he has been here.  When he first arrived, he’d tried visualizing himself _somewhere_ , just to see if it made any difference.  His quarters. In the middle of an Iowa cornfield. Playing chess with Spock.  Only once, while imagining himself on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ , had he seen just a suggestion of color and depth glimmering before him.  Almost an overlay of the faintest opacity.  It had disappeared almost as soon as he noticed it, and he had been unable to recreate the effect.

 

He’s tried his communicator.  Nothing.  Tried shouting, but his voice just seemed to echo back at him.  He’s stuck in limbo – and it is proving damn tedious.

 

To add to his difficulties, it seems he is beginning to fade.  He swears his shirt is just a shade paler than usual, his pants, more of a charcoal grey than the usual black.  His extremities tingle in an unpleasant manner, and the tips of his toes and fingers are nearly transparent.  He doesn’t know what this means, but it can’t be good.

 

He takes out his communicator one more time, flipping it open and rotating the dials.  “Spock?  Bones?  Mister Scott?  Can anyone hear me?  I don’t know where I am, but I sure would appreciate it if you could come and get …” He trails into stunned silence, as the communicator grows insubstantial and dissolves into nothingness.

 

He is so screwed.

 

He is considering the psychological benefits of an old fashioned temper tantrum, when something begins happening to the air around him. He can feel a sensation like static electricity tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck.  In his peripheral vision, he sees a warping effect – and turns.  It isn’t really a shimmer, more of a displacement.  Like a bubble, it expands outward, taking on color and form, and he finds himself gaping at the figure of Mister Spock standing at perfect parade rest in front of him.

 

“Spock?”

 

In that instant, as the Vulcan first catches sight of him - before the stoic mask slips into place - Jim catches a sequence of emotions flickering across Spock’s face.  The look of relief is familiar, a slight easing of tension in the angular features, but there is something else.  Something bright and unexpected.  Kirk is temped to label it ‘joy’, but that would make no sense.  This is Spock.  It is gone so swiftly Kirk is left wondering if it had been nothing more than a trick of the light.  

 

“Captain,” Spock inclines his head just a fraction.  “I must admit, I am… gratified to see you. I was not certain I would be able to establish a link with the (the discordant sound that comes out of Spock’s mouth is not unlike a combination of the shrill screech of metal upon metal and the hacking of a cat spitting up a hairball) technology.”

 

“The _what_?”

 

“The (the jarring racket is repeated) interphase technology.”

 

Kirk winces and holds up a hand.  “Please… don’t make that sound again.”

 

“That is the name of the previous inhabitants of this planet. I appear to be the only one able to reproduce the required combination of phonemes.  I suspect it is unpronounceable by Human vocal cords.”

 

“Thank God for that.”  Jim blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray of tufted spikes.  “So tell me, what’s going on?  Is everyone all right, and where up shit creek are we?”

 

Spock ponders that a moment, before venturing, “I am not familiar with the reference, but if I understand your meaning, we are, essentially in stasis, a form of safe mode if you will.  We currently exist as pure thought within a construct matrix designed to allow for cerebral imprinting by a race of highly mentally evolved beings, the… the beings whose name you do not wish me to enunciate. The remainder of the landing party is currently seeking to facilitate your recovery.”

 

Kirk looks at him, and nibbles on the corner of his lower lip, wondering not for the first time if Spock gets some kind of personal satisfaction from leaving him in the dust.  “Okay.  I got about half of that. You’re saying we’re inside some kind of computer?”

 

Again, that contemplative expression.  Probably trying to figure out how to put it all in baby terms, Kirk reflects with a touch of vexation.

 

“Although the term computer is not entirely accurate, it will suffice for the present.  We are inside a device designed to allow the… user, if you will, to create a simulated environment of their choosing, within which they can function.”

 

“Virtual reality?”

 

Spock seems pleased with him.  “In essence, yes.”

 

“But…” Kirk turns in a circle, hands spread to indicate their full surroundings. “There’s nothing here!”

 

“The reality must be created by the mental emanations of the user.  The… inhabitants of this planet had cultivated their cerebral abilities to a degree that allowed them to manipulate this environment to their personal designs.”

 

That stings.  “So you’re saying I’m not mentally sophisticated enough to create my own reality?”

 

“Jim…” and the corner of Spock’s mouth quirks in that tell-tale curl that indicated he is amused.  “When I established a link with the construct matrix I was concerned that I would find no trace of your mental signature.  The phrenic energy necessary to circumnavigate this environment is considerable. Yet, you have managed to maintain not only your thought processes, but also your bodily integrity.  This…” he reaches out and places a hand in the center of Kirk’s chest, “is a construct.”

 

Kirk looks down at the hand, feeling something stir at the intimacy of the touch. The fingers feel warm.  He wonders if that is a creation of his VR or Spock’s.  “You mean I’m not really here?”

 

“No. Your physical body is currently being tended to by Doctor McCoy.”

 

“And you?”

 

“I am in a mind-link with you through the matrix device.”

 

Just when you thought the universe couldn’t get any weirder. 

 

“The matrix device?  You mean that chamber thing I stepped into?” He holds up a stilling hand. “And I know, you owe me that whole lecture on the ‘not messing around with alien technology’ thing for like the millionth time, but can we shelve that for the moment?”

 

Spock takes a deep breath through his nose.  “As my previous efforts have proven insufficient, I will require additional time to formulate a more convincing argument.  Therefore, I am willing to forgo the obligatory censure till a more suitable occasion.”  The narrowed, dark eyes assure Kirk he is not getting a reprieve, merely delaying the inevitable.  “And to answer your initial question, no, you are not in the chamber.  That was merely the transference booth which allowed your mental self to be separated from your physical body and downloaded into the matrix itself.”

 

Kirk shifts uncomfortably.  “Then where am I, exactly?”

 

“You are in the black box.”

 

“The… black box?  That thing on the pedestal that Scotty was playing with?  _That_ black box?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But it’s so…” Kirk frames the dimensions of the box with his hands, “… small!”

 

And that was a Vulcan smirk if he ever saw one. “Apparently, despite your expansive… self-regard, your mental capacity is, in actuality, rather limited.”

 

Vulcans.  Why did he ever think he actually liked Vulcans? Someone remind him, please.

 

Kirk scrubs at the side of his head. “Okay, so how do we get out of here?”

 

Spock glances around, as though searching for a convenient doorway.  “The construct matrix was initially designed as a two-way interphase. I suspect it was utilized for entertainment purposes. Later, it was adapted to permanently house users. However, the primary programming still exists within the facility mainframe. It is our intention to download the original reverse path programming into one of the transfer booth control systems, and run the latter portion of the sequence, thus returning you to your physical body.” 

 

“Sounds like a plan!” Kirk claps his palms together.  “So let’s do it!”

 

“Mister Scott is currently seeking a suitable transfer booth with which to conduct the re-fusion of your mind and body.”

 

“What’s wrong with the chamber I was using?  Can’t it go both ways?”

 

Again, that pause that could hide a multitude of sins.  “It has been… damaged.”

 

“Damaged…?” Now there was a story he needs to hear… later.

 

“Jim…” There is a hint of alarm in Spock’s voice as he steps closer, into what Kirk considers his personal space.  Warm fingers close around his wrists, and Kirk almost - but not quite – pulls away.  As Spock lifts Jim’s hands up between them, Kirk can see his own fingers are going translucent, the baby blue of Spock’s uniform tunic clearly visible through skin and bone.

 

Oh.

 

“Yeah.  That whole ‘bodily integrity’ thing might not be as stable as you thought.”

 

Spock’s eyebrows draw together, making him look markedly fierce. “It is unwise to remain in this environment any longer.  We cannot arrange for a transfer while we are still held within the safe mode of the system, and Humans are particularly susceptible to the effects of sensory deprivation. You require a more realistic environment to assist you in maintaining your sense of self.”

 

“That’s very nice, Spock, but you already pointed out I don’t have what it takes to create a VR in here.”

 

“Indeed, you do not.  However, I believe I have more than sufficient mental capacity to create a simulated environment suitable for both of us.”

 

Jim remembers that they were cautioned in their xenocultural classes not into apply Human norms when interpreting Vulcan factual statements. To do so tends to make the whole Vulcan species come off sounding like arrogant pricks – which, his instructors had assured the cadets, was erroneous.  That may be, but Kirk is pretty sure this _particular_ Vulcan is Human enough to enjoy flaunting his superiority on occasion.

 

Like now.

 

“Do I get a vote?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Like maybe a visit to Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet?”

 

“I am unfamiliar with that location.”

 

Of course.

 

“Okay, how about that place with the Orion dancing girls. It was fun!”

 

“Mister Chekov was nearly kidnapped by slavers, as I recall.”

 

“Well…yeah, but otherwise it was a blast!”

 

Spock merely gives him that look he has learned to interpret as, ‘Your antics are not nearly as charming as you believe.’

 

Turning to face the empty white blankness, Spock lets his eyes fall shut.  Moments pass, then there is a shimmer.  The shimmer spreads and a patch of the white begins to take on depth and form, undertones of cream and slate giving it a deeper richness.   Kirk watches in open mouthed amazement as a door solidifies out of the nothingness.  It is wooden, heavy, and arched, set with intricate inlays of stone, metal, and glass. A massive door knocker of brass hangs at the center , and beautiful gilded scroll work runs down one side of the ornately carved frame. 

 

“Wow.”

 

Spock opens his eyes and starts.  It is barely perceptible, but Kirk is used to searching for the smallest clues in his first officer.  “Fascinating.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“It… it is the door to my family estate.  On Vulcan.”

 

He doesn’t need to say which Vulcan.

 

Kirk let’s out a low whistle.  “Some estate!”

 

“My father was the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth; as such he entertained numerous distinguished visitors.  It was considered prudent that they be greeted by an impressive façade”

 

“I’ll say!  Was the rest of the estate this… impressive?”

 

“The house and grounds themselves were relatively modest.  My mother did not believe in… ‘putting on airs’, as she termed it.”

 

Kirk steps closer to the door, and reaches out to grasp the ornamental handle.  It feels reassuringly solid under his touch.  “Shall we?”

 

Spock hesitates just a moment, then moves to stand beside Kirk. “Captain. I do not know what we will find on the other side.  Perhaps you should let me enter first.”

 

“Oh come on, Spock.  You wouldn’t dream up something that could hurt me. It’s your childhood home!” He begins to tug on the handle.

 

“On the contrary, if you enter unannounced and encounter I-Chaya, I cannot vouch for your safety.”

 

Okay, so maybe a bit of caution is in order. Kirk ceases his efforts to open the door.  “Who?”

 

“I-Chaya, my sehlat. He guarded the family home.”

 

“Like a pet dog?”

 

Spock cocks his head thoughtfully. “More akin to a cross between your Ursus arctos and the Smilodon.”

 

Kirk grimaces, wishing Spock would not pull these obscure references out of his ass.  “The urs-a-what and smil-a-what?”

 

Spock reaches past him and takes hold of the handle. “Your terran brown bear and extinct saber-toothed cat.”  Oh, Jim knows that look too.  It is the, ‘I am disappointed in you’ expression.  “I would think you would be better versed in the species native to your own planet.”

 

“Sorry,” Jim shrugs, refusing to feel like the bad student.  “One’s extinct and one is only found in wildlife parks.  I have plenty of other species I actually have to worry about.  You know, like Romulans, and Klingons, and the Zennonites… oh, and those things we found on M-164 that spit acid… and those brain-sucking zombie creatures on Menalus… and the fire-breathing, flying dragons of Bezaleous… and those giant ants that chased us all over M-221… ” 

 

Spock opens the door.

 

It isn’t the interior of a house, as Kirk expected, but it is, no doubt, Vulcan – the Vulcan that Kirk had never had the chance to visit - the Vulcan that Nero had destroyed. A hot wind blows through the door carrying the acrid odor of sulpher, and there is a hissing and burbling sound.

 

Kirk squints under the threatening glare of a swollen orange sky as they step through the doorway.  “I think I would have preferred that little dance club with the Orion girls.” He takes in the hostile landscape stretching away before them. Jagged rock formations claw their way up from the scorched earth, black against the thin veil of clouds. Crevasses filled with fiery, molten rock break apart the land.  Scattered crystalline formations spill splashes of brilliant color over the ruined ground, like gems amongst ciders.   In the distance, he sees oversize statues of robes figures standing sentinel. The entire region dances and shimmers in the waves of heat rising from the lava fields. “Holy shit!  What is this place?”

 

Spock looks around in wonder.  “This is quite extraordinary.  It is a perfect re-creation of the Fire Plains of Raal province.  I had not thought to ever see this again.” 

 

Kirk ducks as a fountain of lava shoots skyward from a nearby vent.  And coughs when he draws in a breath of fumes.  “Nice.  Really. Great picnic spot.”

 

Spock turns to him, expression shaken.  “I am sorry. I did not intend to bring you here. It is an inhospitable environment, even for Vulcanians.”

 

Kirk shakes his head.  “Not your fault… I actually always wanted to see the Fire Plains. Big on the… galactic tour… circuit.” He coughs again, and sways, feeling lightheaded.  And then Spock is right there, with fingers of steel gripping his arm. 

 

“Vulcan has a lower oxygen content than Earth, and the air in the Fire Plains contains many noxious gases.  I need to get you some place you can better tolerate.” 

 

The landscape wavers in and out of focus, and at first Jim thinks he must be loosing consciousness. Then he realizes that his surroundings actually are fluctuating.  The angry lava fields melt away, to be replaced by a shaded garden enclosed by a waist-high rock wall. Bursts of bright color flourish in well-tended flower beds.

 

Spock drops Kirk onto a bench situated beneath a gnarled, ancient tree, taking a seat beside him.  “Captain? Are you well?”

 

Kirk draws in a few deep breaths, trying to clear the fumes from his lungs.  “Ah…yeah.  Just give me a minute.”  He glances around curiously.  “Where are we now?”

 

Spock’s voice is uncharacteristically subdued.  “This is my mother’s rose garden behind our estate.  It is a place designed to be more conducive to Human physiological needs.”

 

Kirk takes in the trellises splashed with color, the luxuriant shrubbery sprinkled with blooms of vivid yellows, spicy oranges, delicate pinks, and rich reds.  Now that his nose has cleared, he can catch faint hints of fruity, sweet fragrances.  “Spock… this is… this is lovely.” He turns to the Vulcan beside him.  “Your mother did this?”

 

“Yes… it was… an indulgence my father allowed her, a concession to her Human heritage.  Most of these varieties were specifically bred to survive in desert climates, but they still required special tending and an allotment of water considered excessive on Vulcan.” 

 

Spock is gazing around with a distracted expression, and Kirk sees a faint tremble pass through the fine boned hand where it lies upon the bench.  He resists the impulse to reach out and grip those shaking fingers, but he does place a gentle touch to Spock’s wrist.  “Thank you.  For bringing me here. For letting me see this.”

 

Spock turns to him, and something seems to soften in his eyes.  “Mother found it comforting to come here when the heat became overly incapacitating.  I hoped you would find it refreshing as well.”

 

Kirk grins, “Well, it’s not as refreshing as a dip in a pool, but it will do.”  He notes Spock still eyeing him with concern and pats the back of his hand reassuringly.  “Don’t worry.  I’m fine.  Really.”

 

Spock relaxes just a fraction, easily slipping into their usual banter. “I have heard you express similar sentiments upon previous occasions, generally shortly before you succumb to blood loss, or a concussion, or a toxin in your system.”

 

“Well, this time I really am okay, so you can drop the mother hen act.  That’s what I have Bones for anyway.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly.  “So what now?”

 

Spock stands, putting distance between them and reverting to a more professional mode, his hands clasped behind his back.  “Now I must return to the outside world and assist Mister Scott in downloading the necessary programming to allow us to reverse this process.”

 

“But what about me?  I mean…” Kirk waves a hand around in a vague manner. “Won’t all this disappear when you’re gone?  It’s your VR.”

 

“The concept matrix is a form of AI.  It was designed to be adaptive. Once it has learned the parameters of this environment, it will no longer need my cognitive input to generate this simulation.”

 

“So I just… wait here?” Kirk is not thrilled with this.  He is a man of action. Sitting around Lady Amanda’s rose garden, no matter how delightful, leaves him feeling twitchy.

 

“Essentially, yes.”  Spock’s brow furrows as he considers a possible ramifications. “Though I am uncertain as to whether your perception of time will be distorted in any manner.”

 

“Will you come back?” Kirk hopes that didn’t sound quite as desperate as he feels. He really does not want to spend eternity in a rose garden.

 

“It should not be necessary for me to return.  You are now within the matrix itself and thus your mental pattern is accessible to the programming.  We should be able to initiate a transference using the transfer booth.”

 

Kirk swipes the tip of his tongue over his lips. “What if it doesn’t work?”

 

And there is that slight head tilt that has become bewitchingly familiar to Kirk. “I do not have sufficient data to assure definitive reintegration of mind and body, but I can postulate success. I see no reason the system should not work as designed.  Although your Human physiology is a variable, the fact that the system was able to transfer you into the concept matrix is evidence that it is not a critical factor.”

 

Kirk nods, smiling.  “That all sounds very promising. Now…” he leans forward on the bench, and raises a hand to emphasize his words, “what if… it… doesn’t…  work?”

 

Spock’s lips tighten just enough to let Kirk know he is perturbed, though none of his agitation reaches his tone.  “Then I shall return and attempt… a variation of the _Fal-tor-pan_.”

 

“And that is…?”

 

Spock does not answer immediately.  Instead, he lets his hooded gaze pass over the lush garden to the barren desert beyond.  “The meaning is shrouded in mystery and time. To discuss it further would require the breaking of a confidence closely guarded by the Vulcan people.” His dark eyes flick back to Kirk and remain, fixed and weighing.  “It is not something we speak of with off-worlders.  Rarely is it mentioned even amongst our own.  Should I choose to share this knowledge…”  He pauses, seeming to search for appropriate words.  “I trust you will honor our beliefs by remaining… discreet?” 

 

“Of course, Spock!” Kirk is a bit wounded that his First feels the need to ask. He’d thought they’d come farther than that.  Or maybe he’d just hoped they had.  He spreads his hands in acquiescence. “But look, if it makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to tell me anything.”

 

Spock looks away, attention returning once more to the desert.  “No.  Under the circumstances, you have a right to know what may lie ahead. It will give you time to process the information should such a procedure prove necessary.” 

 

When he again turns to Kirk, his countenance is gentle, his eyes warm.  “And I do trust you, Jim.”

 

The offer to discuss enigmatic Vulcan lore is a gift, and Kirk is warmed by the intimacy of the gesture.  He smiles his appreciation and hopes Spock understands as he pats the bench in encouragement.

 

Once more, Spock lowers himself to sit primly beside his captain.  “The _Fal-tor-pan_ is Vulcan ritual which seeks to reunite the mind and body. The soul, or _katra_ , is returned to the physical body in which it is meant to reside.”

 

Kirk pulls a face.  “That sounds pretty intense.  You guys do this sort of thing often?”

 

Spock slips easily into what Jim likes to call ‘Vulcan lecture mode,’ which means, if he listens and does not die of boredom, he just might learn something.  “On the contrary.  It is a very rare ceremony. I have only heard of a full _Fal-tor-pan_ being performed in legend.  It is said to have been used to save the _katra_ of Surak, the Father of the Logical Path, one of our most revered figures in history. Stories tell he was killed by Sudoc, a tyrannical Vulcan warlord with unrivaled telepathic abilities whose followers would later form the Romulan Empire.”

 

“So Nero and his bunch could be traced back to this… Sudoc guy?”

 

“Nero was from an alternate reality, so I cannot be certain, but there is a high probability that their cultural history is not that divergent from our own, so yes.”

 

“Well, that might explain a few things.”

 

“Indeed.” Spock notes, before continuing with his history lesson.  “Surak, it is written, was restored to life by the _Fal-tor-pan_.  I personally would not have the necessary skills to accomplish a full refusion as was performed upon Surak. Such a procedure requires one to remove the _katra_ from the intact mind of another sentient being, teasing apart two separate but entwined souls.  Only the Adepts of Mount Seleya would attempt such an intricate and potentially dangerous process. It may well be that the knowledge has been completely lost to us with the destruction of Vulcan.  However, as your _katra_ is presently self-contained within the matrix device, I do not foresee the same complexities.”

 

“Piece of cake, right?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

Kirk always feels a sense of accomplishment when he manages to evoke that puzzled expression in his first officer. “You think you can do it.”

 

“I estimate the probability of my success as point seven two.”

 

“Seventy-two percent?” He’d prefer something a bit closer to a shoo-in. “That’s a bit iffy, don’t you think?”

 

Spock looks slightly apologetic.  “It is… an indeterminate contingency.”

 

“And if the _Fal-tor-pan_ thing doesn’t work? What then?”

 

“Then you will have to remain immersed within the construct matrix until such time as an alternative viable solution can be found.”

 

Okay.  That kind of sucked. I mean, Kirk liked a good VR game as much as the next guy, but permanently?  Not so much.  

 

Spock stands once more, and Kirk holds up a stilling hand.  “Wait.  One more question before you leave.”  He gazes up at the Vulcan, a shadowed silhouette against the brooding red sky.  “You said I was in one of those black boxes, right?  Spock, there were billions of those things stored in that facility.”

 

“Two billion, five hundred ninety-nine million, six hundred fifty-nine thousand, thirty-six.”

 

“Whatever,” he shakes his head dismissively.  “The point is, what was that place?  The largest gaming facility in the cosmos, or something else?  Do those boxes all contain a mental imprint, like mine?”

 

Spock’s reaction is one Jim rarely sees from the Vulcan, an almost pained look.  “From the data we could retrieve from the main frame, it is our conclusion that the boxes did, at one time, contain individual mental signatures.”

 

Kirk’s eyes narrow as he notes the subtle dissemblance.  “At one time?”

 

“All the ones we were able to access have… ceased function.”

 

Which is Vulcan speak for… “They died?”

 

“Their mental emanations have terminated, yes.”

 

Jim thinks of those stacks and stacks and stacks of boxes, all neatly arranged in tidy rows.  All dead.  “All two billion plus?”

 

“That is difficult to determine without accessing each individual device, but I suspect that to be the case.”

 

“Why?” Kirk shakes his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the magnitude of the loss.  “What happened?”

 

“Their records show that the inhabitants of this planet allowed their natural environment to become so desecrated with toxins that it could no longer sustain their organic existence.  Their attempts to establish off planet colonies failed.  You recall the abandoned sites we detected on the outer moons. 

 

Well, that was one mystery cleared up.  “Yes.”

 

“So they determined to transfer their minds into the matrix receptacles, and live out their lives in perpetual VR.”

 

“Everyone?  The whole population of the planet?”

 

“Perhaps.  What is certain is that anyone who chose to remain in the natural environment would have died due to the high levels of contaminants.”

 

Kirk was still puzzled.  “But the power in the facility is still working, so why are they dead?”

 

When Spock cocks his head this time, there is something almost indulgent in the gesture.  “Jim, a virtual life, no matter how pleasant, is still virtual.  On some level the denizens of this planet knew they were living a lie.  Psychologically, that could be very detrimental over time.”

 

“You’re saying they just gave up? Committed virtual suicide of some kind.”

 

“Suicide is not a concept of which I fully can fully conceive, but that is Doctor McCoy’s assessment.”

 

“Why didn’t they just return to their bodies… live out what time they could on the planet?”

 

“That option was… unavailable.  According to the programming patterns, the bodies of those who transferred were incinerated following the transference process, most likely to avoid the hazards of pathological waste.”

 

“Yeah.  Two and a half billion people is a lot of dead bodies.”  Kirk scrubs at his face.  “A whole planet… a whole damn planet.”

 

“Yes.”  And Spock’s gaze is again on the distance.

 

Kirk winces, the last thing he wanted was to remind Spock of his own loss.  He fumbles for something to say.  And settles for, “But what about me?  How come I wasn’t ‘incinerated’?”

 

And Jim thinks the heat must be getting to him because he could have sworn Spock just smiled at him.

 

“Because Mister Scott is an exceptional engineer and Ensign Tevyal a dedicated security officer.”

 

Kirk lets himself laugh.  “The damaged transfer booth, I take it?”

 

“Precisely.”  Spock reaches out, and surprises Kirk by placing a hand on his shoulder.   “I must go now.”

 

It takes him a moment, but he finds his voice.  “Yeah.  Okay.  You sure you don’t want to look around some more?  See Vulcan one last time?”

 

“No.” Spock releases him and steps away. The warmth of his fingers linger.  “Much as the (and again comes that grating goulash of sound that sets Kirk’s teeth on edge- but this time he says nothing) did, I find a _virtual_ reality lacking. I prefer my memories.”

 

“Right then.” Kirk wiggles his fingers in farewell.  “See you soon.”

 

Spock nods, and stands quietly, his hooded gaze lingering on Kirk’s face.

 

“What?” Kirk quells the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. “What is it?  Do I have something stuck in my teeth?” 

 

Spock straightens abruptly, seeming to shake himself out of some reverie.  “I apologize, Captain.  Recent events have given me… much to consider.” And again, there is a flash of something unusual in his expression, something approachable, yet vulnerable.  Kirk has yet to decipher this new aspect of Spock, but it fills him with a giddy sense of hope. 

 

Before he can give voice to any of the questions crowding his mind, Spock closes his eyes and slowly fades, as though being carried off particle by particle on the dry, desert wind.

 

Kirk fervently hopes that is not the last time he sees the Vulcan or anyone for that matter.

 

Sighing, he shifts on the bench and lets his eyes stray to the barren landscape beyond the walled garden. This was Spock’s home. For a while, he sits in quiet contemplation and simply allows himself to assimilate Vulcan.  Spiked ridges of rock rise from the broken terrain like the teeth of some giant carnivore whose bones are buried beneath the thirsty ground. The sky is oozing yellows and oranges. It looks wounded.  Only the hardiest of plants survive here, spindly things that hug the ground, spiked succulents, or dry grasses.  It is a harsh place, but there is a certain severe beauty to it.  Not unlike Spock himself.

 

He bites his lip to ground himself as he bitterly concedes the capricious nature of the universe.  The inhabitants of a once thriving world had allowed their planet to be poisoned thorough their own folly.  And then they had destroyed themselves. The Vulcans, who meticulously prided themselves upon sound environmental practices, had their planet and most of their population stolen away by Nero, a Romulan madman from another reality. 

 

Sometimes life just sucks.

 

With another heavy exhalation, Kirk levers himself to his feet.  He might as well take advantage of his time here.  The garden is enchanting, and he wouldn’t mind a stroll around the grounds.  After all, Bones is always telling him he should take some time to ‘stop and smell the flowers’. 

 

The nearest bush is covered with lush, dark green foliage.  Delicate blossoms flushed with apricot and pink uncurl like a promise. He reaches to run one finger over the velvety tip of a pedal, and laughs at the irony as he feels a tingling displacement suffuse his body.   The simulated world around him begins to melt out of existence.

 

Apparently, he just isn’t destined to stop and smell the flowers.

 

 ***

 

 **Glossary:**   (With thanks to the various internet sources, a bit of artistic license – and a special nod to Lalazee and her lovely hubby Zeb who helped a bit with some Scottish slang questions.)

 

sc = Scottish slang

v = Vulcan

o = other

ms = made up shit

 

awfy – (sc) awfully/really

bammed up – (sc) excited/teased

bawbuster – (sc) confusing/difficult

blether – (sc) chatter

boggin – (sc) useless/disgusting

canna – (sc) can’t

chuffed – (sc) pleased with one’s self

dinnae – (sc) don’t

fan-dabby-dozy – (sc) splendid

fash – (sc) upset

geed up – enthusiastic/pumped

go’n like the clappers – (sc) working hard/running hot

goosed – (sc) screwed

Hunting the Gowk – (s) both a playful game and a two day celebration in Scotland - similar to April Fool’s Day

ken – (sc) know

kerfluffle – (sc) commotion

nippin – (sc) nagging

no got a scooby – (sc) haven’t got a clue

numpty – (sc) useless individual

peely-wally – (sc) sick

pu’lah – (vms) sweet pudding favored by Vulcan children

Riemann Hypothesis – (o) first formulated by Bernard Riemann in the year 1859, it is considered by some to be the most important unresolved problem in mathematics 

take the one way transport – (ms) to die

 

 

 ***

 

 

Mix by Wyn

 

OVERARCHING THEME:  Pink Elephants On Parade  
  
HUE:   Tamarindio - Ocote Soul Sounds with Adrian Quesada  
Montserrat - Bajofondo Tango Club  
Widescreen - Vanessa Mae  
  
CHROMA:  Hymn to Red October - Basil Poledouris  
Tarzan Boy - Baltimora  
Warm Air - Vanessa Mae  
  
LUMINOSITY:  Red Hot - Vanessa Mae  
Camel Race - Jerry Goldsmith  
California Baylor - Nancy Wilson  
  
ACHROMATIC: The Lightning Strike - Snow Patrol  
i. What If This Storm Ends  
ii. The Sunlight Through the Flags  
iii. Daybreak

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes are a self-indulgence – a gift I give myself after spending hours writing a fic that others can read for their pleasure. I personally, have always enjoyed the chance to get inside an author’s head a bit, and see what influenced the decisions they made in a particular piece. So bear with me here. 
> 
> This piece was originally written for the Star trek Big Bang 2010. It is linked there to my Live Journal.
> 
> This is a NuTrek (Reboot) piece. Why did I choose to set it in Reboot verse? Simple really… that is how it came to me, which has a major effect on HOW the characters interact with each other, the universe and the reader. I once read a Trek fic with Kirk and company that was not specified either TOS or NuTrek, and when I asked the author which crew it was written about, she replied, “Oh, it doesn’t matter…whatever you want.” 
> 
> I beg to differ. It most assuredly DOES matter! It matters a great deal!
> 
> I am am old school TOS fan. I won’t apologize for that. Folks like me have kept this franchise going for over 40 years. If it hadn’t been for us, there wouldn’t BE a AOS NuTrek! When I went to see the first film in 2009, I left the theater feeling as though I’d been watching beloved characters through some kind of distorted circus funhouse mirror - that the characters, though familiar, were just slightly off kilter - some more so than others. Oddly enough, it took writing a long fic using the NuTrek revised bridge crew to really being to see just how different they are from my old friends. Several times while writing, the NuTrek characters acted in ways or said things that their TOS counterparts NEVER would have - at least not without being under the influence of some alien drug or mind probe or parasite or something. This left me questioning myself and my characterizations quite closely during the course of writing this piece. Many times, I found myself thinking, “How can Kirk say something like that! If TOS Kirk said something like that, McCoy would have him in Sickbay so fast he’d redshift!” Or “How can Spock be so pissy?” Or “How can Uhura be so insubordinate!” Yet it worked for the NuCharacters. At least, I think it did. I suppose that determination is ultimately up to my readers. It was quite an interesting and enlightening experience!
> 
> This particular fic grew out of a challenge to myself. I knew I wanted to write a NuTrek piece, but I was looking to do something different than my usual “pick a plot and expand” style. So I started looking around for unusual sources of inspiration – and one day while shopping at Lowes, I found it – a color wheel! Having no more than that to work with, I started putting pieces together. I decided to randomly assign Primary, Secondary, and Tertiary levels of color to three stories. Then, I used this as a template, and built three short pieces around each triplex of colors. Then I added a fourth story based upon a neutral color scheme. In the end, I had four stories, each with three scenes each viewed from three different character’s perspectives! I did have to do some juggling around in that some stories start at the Primary level of the wheel and proceed toward Tertiary, and others flow the opposite direction. 
> 
> Which brings us to this – a trinitarian quartet – for your reading pleasure (I hope.)
> 
> A very special thank you to some key people who helped turn this from simply another story collection, into a multi-media “project.”  
> \- First and foremost, my baby sister (Shmoobiee) and fellow Trek fan, who acted as cheerleader and beta for my first draft.  
> \- The folks at Star Trek Big Bang, who encouraged me to sign up and stick with it.  
> \- KCScribble, who took time to do a fantastic beta job, despite writing her own BigBang fic.  
> -Xenakis, my talented artist who agreed to illustrate this piece, and Wyntreaurora, my songstress who provided the soundtrack. 
> 
> Thank you all!


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